


Do As I Say (And I Will Be Your Slave)

by orphan_account



Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sirens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clu decides to get creative. There's more than one way to rectify a program, and he's always wanted Tron for more than his fighting skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Screaming_. He remembered that. Crushing weight on his chest, the crackling pain of derezz spreading from where he had been stabbed with his own identity disk, an outraged roar when the damage _would not stop_ spreading. Errors propagating as uncontrolled diagnostics ran and ran and overwhelmed self-repair functions gave up. _Darkness_.

Tron floated, numbness giving away to a hazy, buzzy feeling of power feeding in through his circuits. He couldn’t move, locked in place via disk port and restraints that kept him from rubbing at his eyes as he tried to bring the world back into focus, no equipment or even a basic suit-model loaded, left in his bare shell. Everything was still haze, smeary shapes of light in reds and golds moving languidly against the dark of the system. He did not _hurt_ , though, and it was an improvement over rattling screaming agony. There were voices, too, tones familiar even if the words were still smeared into insensibility, and one of the red smears broke away and passed, close. _Dyson_. Once one of his lieutenants, then turned to Clu, and maybe Tron _should_ have voiced his utter frustration with Flynn for ignoring them both because maybe if he _had_ there would have been another at his side when Clu—

The signature confirmation was from a brush to his arm, the circuits on Dyson’s hand connecting briefly to Tron’s bared lines, and thought was interrupted by the unfiltered wash of _lust/anticipation/satisfaction_ that broadcast clearly through the contact along with a pulse of violet-hued power that sparked a feeble flicker of charge before it was consumed by his power-starved systems. _What_ had—Tron was _aware_ that Dyson had been unashamedly attracted to him, but he hadn’t been able to reciprocate, not between admittedly fading hope that Yori would soon join him and the responsibility of a function growing increasingly desperate. He had _not_ released permissions for anything but the most basic pulse-transfer, certainly not the contact that he’d only ever shared with his counterpart in far-away Encom.

Alarm warred with the sleepy buzzing under his render, sourced now to a patch wrapped around the node on his arm just below the elbow. It fed power slowly, too slowly for Tron’s processes to clear completely, but not even the gold light that made his eyes sting stopped him from recognizing _Clu_ as the administrator grasped his chin and tilted his head back.

“Shhhh… stop fighting it,” Clu said, brushing Tron’s lower lip with his thumb.

_What did you do_ , he wanted to yell, to surge off the platform and wrap his hands around the corrupt administrator’s _neck_ , but the sound came out as a garbled moan and he couldn’t do more than twitch in bindings that held his arms out perpendicular to his body to make escape less easy. And the _thought_ … it made his processes fuzz for a moment, pain throbbing to life behind his eyes until he let the wish for gratifying violence go, confused.

“Stubborn.”

_Smug_ radiated from Clu, like something cloying that Tron could almost taste.

“You should thank me, you know. I could have left you to derezz. Or stripped you down like some of the _other_ stubborn monitors… well, if there had been more to you at the time,” Clu said, fingers trailing from Tron’s chin and to the delicate collar of circuitry around his neck. _Heat/lust/mine_ felt like it was burning into his circuits, fanning little sparks of charge that pulsed heat through him and then died as his systems fought to re-norm.

_What did you do?_ The thought was the only one that managed to stay together as Clu stroked the circuits on Tron’s neck, a thoughtful expression resolving from his blurry features, extra charge speeding the cold-boot process that Tron was still completing.

“Program. Identify,” Clu purred after a few moments more. Tron bared his teeth, hissed against the command, and opened his mouth to demand an answer.

“Tron-JA-307020,” he said back, voice still scratchy and burred from screaming. He must have been worse than he thought, to be running automatic scripts with so much of his normal cognition intact.

“Excellent… Function and directive.” There was a triumph in Clu’s voice and expression that Tron didn’t like, though it was hard to hold on to the emotion with the way _mine-mine-mine_ kept intruding from the open contact between them. There was something about that, about running on automatic even with memory and cognition running green, something _important_ —

“Function: Siren class. Directive: Serve Clu and designated secondary agents when orders do not conflict with primary authority.”

_Horror_ hit, hard enough to drown the bolt of _possessive/triumph_ leeching in from Clu’s touch. Tron thrashed against the restraints, strength enough now to try it, but while they bit painfully into his wrists and ankles he didn’t have the power to shatter them. Not anymore, diagnostics singing out and returning status-normal and highly altered statistics from his last version. While he was still strong, strong enough to pull at the bindings until his shell started showing reddish cracks, he lacked a security program’s unyielding power, internal resources re-distributed away from potential combat and toward scanning… which itself had been altered into an unfamiliar configuration.

“What did you do? What did you _do_?” he gasped, at least free to speak as he shuddered against the intrusive contact settled at his collarbone, right above his identifier. _Victory_ and _want_ pulsed through him as Clu leaned closer, unfiltered connection making it clear just how much Clu was _enjoying_ this, and Tron could not block it or the reciprocating flush of violet that was there and gone across the circuits on his chest.

“Saved you, of course,” Clu said, leaning one hip against the platform and tracing the circuit at his fingertip over the complicated lines on Tron’s side. “A slow derezz was not the fate I had in mind for _you_. Of course, by the time we got you back and stable, most of your combat functions were nothing but a few vestigial errors. Dyson _wanted_ me to put you down, but… _Well_. Waste not, want not. Somehow I doubt he’s going to complain much about plan B.”

“ _You—“_ The words died, fury choked on a fresh flush of charge settling into his circuits.

“Repurposed you? Oh yes.”

_“Why?”_ Tron said, anguish undisguised even as he had to bite down a startled groan when Clu derezzed his glove and resumed his slow exploration of Tron’s circuits.

“You are _mine_. You were supposed to be mine… remember?” Clu _tsked_ and looked away a moment, something Tron couldn’t catch coloring the power cycling between them, before his heated gaze fixed on Tron with a smirk. “Even if you don’t remember… Flynn can’t have you. He was never worthy of you… your loyalty… any of it. You don’t have to fight for him anymore, or at all. I’ve _won_.”

“You loosed a virus on _your own system_ and tried to kill—“

“My User? And what about that, Tron? My User. The _Creator_ ,” he said, spitting the title that the ISOs had given Flynn, “He could have derezzed the virus at the installation, _Tron_. He could have stopped _me_ even more easily. One deletion command. _One_. You really think even my loyal forces would have been able to resist a real User command? And instead what did he do? Left _you_ to fight. Left _you_ to _die_ while he ran away like a frightened bit.”

Clu’s hand came back up to Tron’s throat, fingers digging at the junction of neck and jaw until Tron could only hold his head perfectly still. The bare circuits on Clu’s fingers still touched off sparks where they overlapped the circuits ringing his throat, something huge and dark looming behind the simpler greed Tron could sense as easily as he once tracked viral corruption.

“It’s over now. You took quite a lot of work… missed a whole lot. I’m sad to say that new monitor you wanted so badly went down with my flagship. He did stop Abraxas, though. Gotta hand him points for tenacity,” Clu said lightly, “And the ISOs.. well, not a problem now. It’s just us again, like it was supposed to be. Just one perfect system.

“So yes, Tron, I’ve won. I think I’ve more than earned a prize for myself, hmm?”

Clu’s smirk widened, fingers going tight enough to make Tron gasp, and the administrator wasted no time following up on the advantage, leaning in to claim Tron’s mouth for his. Tron shrank back, but not enough to pull away from the tongue that licked eagerly in, _satisfaction/mine/desire_ spilling hot from where their circuits brushed. Tron wanted to bite, but the moment the idea crossed his mind pain flared in his head, bright with error flags, strong enough to make him flinch.

“Ah-ah-ah... I knew you’d be too stubborn to resist trying it,” Clu said, and bit Tron’s lower lip un-gently before he licked the hurt away, “You can’t hurt _me_. That wouldn’t be very good behavior for a _prize_ at all.”

“Viral _glitch_ ,” Tron snarled. Clu tilted his head again and mouthed at the circuits around his throat, sucking at the lines near his shoulder, a _need_ to mark—and _be_ marked, but that was Clu, _only Clu_ —sending violet warmth ricocheting along Tron’s circuits.

“I think you _do_ protest too much,” Clu said, self-satisfied as he shifted, his still-gloved hand now playing along the curving circuit on Tron’s chest. “How long has it been since anyone touched you like this. Cycles?”

_Want_ flared hard, open permissions singing it back as charge finally started to build, power systems back in something like equilibrium. Tron made a strangled noise, trying to at least keep the _satisfaction_ from Clu as much as he could with heated color giving away exactly how much the power transfer was affecting him.

“Longer, then?” A last sucking kiss to the sore spot on Tron’s neck. Clu was derezzing his suit slowly, finer skin-circuits showing a pinkish-purple burn at the edges, and he smirked when he caught Tron watching the process. Tron growled back, straining against the bindings holding his arms in place as Clu swept bare hands up his sides, igniting the whole array.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t since you were installed here. Poor starved thing.” Clu made a sympathetic noise and traced back down, paying special attention to the angular lines that reached to the circle at Tron’s chest, watching him twitch and try not to cry out with sharp attention that made him want to squirm _more_. It _had_ been that long, excess charge always easier to burn off with fighting or a long round in the games, and _Users_ he had started to forget how _good_ it felt to merge power. But he wouldn’t even be feeling it if Clu hadn’t repurposed him.

“ _Off_ ,” Tron hissed, snarl clashing with a cry when Clu licked the compact tetramino at his collar, changed identifier legacy of the upgrades he’d been given for the Grid.

“Oh, I’ll get you off, no worries there,” Clu growled, directive whispering _surrender_ as another wave of jealous devotion shuddered through Tron from the circuit contact. “Stop fighting me, Tron.”

He whined low in his throat as hands and biting kisses trailed lower along his circuits, feeling chains of directive tighten, the direct order impossible to ignore. He should feel something more, more than the echoing _lust/want/mine/yes_ and the heady gold/violet taste of energy building and cycling, but he couldn’t hang on to the thought past the directive-reinforced compulsion to _let go_. Clu seemed to pick it up, pleased rumble accompanied by a bite to the node at his hip that made Tron hiss between his teeth. Sure fingers wrapped around the errection Tron had been trying to _ignore_ , squeezing just shy of uncomfortable before stroking lazily over the bright-hot circuits there and dragging a long, low moan from the fallen monitor.

“Much better,” Clu murmured, releasing the ankle restraints. Tron flinched when the urge to kick sent another error shrieking through his processes. Clu caught his foot anyway, hanging uncertainly in mid-motion, and chuckled as he levered himself up onto the platform and slid between Tron’s legs, the last of his armored gridsuit derezzing. Even without the open contact pouring heat through Tron’s systems, he could see that Clu was more than enjoying this, now-free cock bobbing heavily as the administrator leaned in to drape himself over his captive. Clu was _heavy_ , and completely shameless about sliding the delicate circuits meant only for interfacing together as he tangled one hand in Tron’s hair and dragged him in for another kiss. Tron could barely find breath, pinned as Clu plundered his mouth and thrust shallowly against his hip, muttering mine-mine-mine in time with the pulses of hot want that flickered through their circuits until Tron’s were a steady violet and _feeling_ the aching burn of impending overload.

Clu pulled back with a last nibble to Tron’s abused lower lip, and he couldn’t help a quiet moan of protest. Opening his eyes dazedly didn’t do much to help clarify things, senses scrambled with violet light until the charge backed down a little after _long_ microcycles. The administrator was watching him squirm, a wicked smile on his face. Sure of his audience, Clu lifted one of Tron’s trembling legs to his shoulder, fingers playing along the lines on his inner thigh until Tron was nearly on the edge again before he backed off.

“Stop it,” Tron rumbled, flushing with feeling that had nothing to do with frustrated _want_ of his own when the words registered.

“You don’t really want me to stop,” Clu said, knowing grin unbearable, and Tron twisted and _shoved_ with his free foot. _Intent_ seemed to make a difference with his altered directive, and Clu rocked back at the push before capturing Tron’s ankle and settling his leg loosely around his waist. The administrator crawled forward, forcing Tron to curl up with his weight on his shoulders, legs around Clu for balance, motion limited by the fact his disk dock was still locked to the platform and arms stretched out and bound, useless.

“So beautiful…” Clu murmured, tracing his fingertips along Tron’s cheek as he shifted, hot hardness nudging his entrance. “So perfect this way.”

“ _Clu_ ,” Tron groaned, but in supplication or negation he couldn’t tell anymore, altered directives and his own base coding urging him to _complete the circuit_ before he lost his mind.

“ _Yes._ ”

Strong hands wrapped around the blades of Tron’s hips, and Clu thrust in with a _growl_ , bottoming out and holding blessedly still as Tron’s body struggled to adapt to the intrusion. The low ache faded quickly, alien _Siren_ functionality sparing him the discomfort, but the open, vulnerable feeling of being completely at Clu’s mercy didn’t. Teeth closed on the earlier bite mark on Tron’s neck, worrying it further, as the administrator actually _shook_ for a microcycle. Slowly he disengaged the bite and leaned back, giving Tron room to breathe.

“All _mine_ ,” Clu rumbled, punctuating the words with a short, shallow thrust that sparked heat in a flush from Tron’s core to his skin circuits. The flare must have been encouragement, because after a moment spent shifting his grip on Tron’s legs Clu started fucking him in earnest, deep steady strokes that stole what little equilibrium Tron had won back. Charge licked hungrily between them, power cycling higher and even Clu lit solidly lavender now as his pace began to pick up, one hand at Tron’s hip with bruising force. He could feel the storm of an overload building again, circuits burning with it, and Clu wrapped too-tight fingers around the base of his cock, dragging him back _again_.

“Say it… say you’re mine,” Clu said breathlessly.

“ _Yours_ , yes,” Tron moaned, squirming, eyes shut tight against the throbbing pulse of their lights as the administrator kept ruthlessly rocking into him.

“ _Look at me_ and say it.”

Tron opened his eyes, dazzled and desperate, and locked eyes with Clu. The blue was flickering gold, desperate _want/need_ the only coherent impression cycling between them, and those too-tight fingers and overcharged circuits made Tron _hurt_ with it.

“Yours,” he whispered.

Grinning, almost looking beta-innocent again, Clu stroked Tron’s captured length and leaned to bite just above the knee still resting on his shoulder. Pleasure/pain made his circuits flare a last time as overload _hit_ , lightning crackling under his shell more intense than time-dulled memories. Clu rode him through it, brutal thrusts drawing a yowl of protest as over-sensitive circuits sparked sensation too intense to be classed cleanly as either agony or ecstasy. Finally, as guttering charge wound down, Clu’s own pace stuttered and his circuits bled _light_ and _heat_ and _desire_ , flickering a last stab of half-painful sensation through Tron’s core, and the administrator collapsed onto him as both their systems returned to normal.

A faint cheep, subliminal and only detectable at all because of their lingering contact, told Tron Clu had been pinged. Growling peevishly, Clu tightened his lingering hold on Tron’s hip before reluctantly opening his eyes and pulling away.

The remaining restraints unlocked at once as Clu slid off the platform, leaving Tron’s still-trembling legs to settle where they would, and with a smug look Clu gave Tron a last, lingering kiss.

“Gem will give you whatever tutorial you need for your new function,” he said, armor rezzing back into place, “And I will see _you_ when the throneship returns to the Arena. Be ready for me, Tron.”

Tron watched the hazy gold retreat, still exhausted by the frantic interfacing so soon on the heels of waking from a major rewrite, and curled on his side once he was sure he was alone, senses limited with distance-scans distressingly unavailable. Because he was a _Siren_.

Tron flinched as the truth of the matter registered without Clu’s emotions and energy to cloud his processes, wrapping bare arms around himself without the advantage of a template or blanket, and waited lifelessly for Gem. 


	2. Chapter 2

He must have fallen into hibernation, dreams fragments of _mine_ and _Flynn, go_ , because Gem was shaking him awake with bright curls of _impatience_ licking at his senses. Tron growled under his breath, curling a little tighter, but sleeping on the platform hadn’t been such a good idea. He ached all over, and his circuits felt raw with too much input.

“I know you’re awake, Tron,” Gem said, punctuating her words with another little shake. “ _Up_. You can’t stay in here all shift.”

At least this time when he opened his eyes, his vision cooperated, the familiar form of the Siren resolving sharply. She was wearing the simple suit template the Sirens favored while on duty in the Arena, her hair up in a severe bun that emphasized the frown she was currently giving him. The hand on his shoulder moved, a quick, gentle press to his identifier and flicker of querying scan, and she looked away and swore under her breath.

“Of _course_ he— _Up_ ,” Gem said, tugging Tron’s arm until he finally, _reluctantly_ moved. His legs still weren’t steady, and he was forced to lean on the platform for balance until his system re-adjusted to being vertical. Gem, meanwhile, snatched his disk from its port with an irritated noise, flicking straight into the empty memory block devoted to templates... which looked a lot larger than he remembered. Tron watched, bemused, but didn’t try to take it back. What was the point? Clu had ensured he couldn’t fight where it counted.

“Give me a micro,” Gem said, frown softening a little as she glanced up at Tron. “I’ll install something to hold you for now and then we can get _out_ of here. The repurposing lab always makes me nervous.”

Tron flicked his fingers, a silent acknowledgement that she could do what she wanted. Gem hummed, eyeing him thoughtfully, and withdrew a pair of data hexes from a storage slot in the thigh of her suit. There appeared to be a decision-making process involved, one that employed that same absent hum, and Tron’s eyes cut away to take in the rest of the room. It was stripped down, equipment powered down and docked to the walls, all interfaces dormant. The door was temptingly open, a pair of sentries blocking the way out. One stared straight ahead, but the other had his helmet tilted, watching what was going on inside. Tron looked away, not sure if he _wanted_ to know whether the faint little smirk on the sentry’s lips was mere curiosity or something _else_. Gem had fixed on a template she liked, a few confident flicks through Tron’s disk interface enough to bring up and then complete the upload, and she handed his disk— _white_ now, not black—back with a nod. He stared down at it, seized with the mad desire to activate the edge and—and what, he wasn’t quite sure. Tactics were fuzzy, motions he’d thought reflex now only detached memories.

_Repurposed_. If only Clu hadn’t been so glitching _thorough_.

Disk synched easily enough, and the template that rezzed over his shell was simple, white with accenting gray, and only a few strips of still-blue circuitry to outline limbs and torso. The suit clung, leaving little to the imagination, and lacked armor completely, but at least it covered all but a small segment of the circuitry around his throat, an old-system quirk that the Grid’s templates had to be modified to accommodate. It was a bit of a relief, the achy-raw feeling subsiding as his bare circuits were muffled by the suit, toning down unfamiliar input streams.

Gem smiled, the tuneless hum dying out, and captured one of Tron’s hands to tuck into the crook of her arm.

“Much better,” she said, eyeing him critically before she reached up with her free hand to smooth his hair, still alive with static, back down. He could pick up impressions from her touch, though without the thought-stealing intensity of before. Satisfaction. Concern. A surprisingly strong well of anger, buried under a layer of irritation. Gem frowned at him again, concern spiking higher, and almost seemed to be about to say something until thinking better of it and steering him out the door. The sentries tracked their movement, and Tron forced his back straight as he walked beside Gem despite the humiliation that made him want to find a dark corner and _hide_.

Of course Gem was masking fury. He had failed utterly in his true function, and now he’d been presented to her beta-ignorant for _tutorial_.

The repurposing lab turned out to be a squat building in an otherwise barren block devoted to long-term storage. It buzzed with far more activity than Tron had ever seen before, recognizers being eased out of hangars and floated gently into the air. Several more of the large craft were flying sweeps around the edges of the city. All were a singular, malevolent red. He shuddered.

Why hadn’t Flynn _listened_ when he told the User that some pieces of the past were better off deleted and gone? With even of a _fraction_ of the things Tron knew rested in this block…

“A lot has changed since your last recorded timestamp, I bet,” Gem said softly.

“How long?” Tron murmured, eyes darting to track the movement of the recognizers in the sky.

“It’s been two cycles since the Portal’s last activation,” Gem said, “Point-four since Clu declared his purge complete and the system back on the way to perfection.”

_Two cycles?_ “Flynn—“

“He lives,” Gem said, “Though _where_ is an open query. All we can do on that score is wait.”

He sighed, looking away. So it hadn’t _all_ been in vain. If the User was out there, then there was still hope Clu could be stopped.

Lights were approaching, resolving into a street runner being driven by another slim mirage in white. Her close-cropped black hair and template choice, which displayed the flash of pale circuits on her legs and midriff against a great deal of pale skin to what was probably distracting advantage, lent her a rebellious air that matched the sharkish grin she gave to Gem as the runner pulled up and she leaned out of the open canopy.

“You can’t hog the little bird to yourself!” she caroled, “Or are you still mad I won? I swear, I thought it was close if it’s any—“

“Lux,” Gem said, picking up the thread of conversation as the other Siren’s words stuttered to a shocked halt. “I’m sure you don’t need introduced. Tron, this is Lux. She recently won the right to be master template for our function, and she’ll be helping acclimate you once she _picks her jaw up_.”

“Well it’s not every cycle one runs into such a vision in _white_ ,” Lux said, recovering with remarkable speed, and snorted as the rear door popped open. With a little push from Gem, Tron settled in the back seat. Rather than take the front passenger position, Gem slid in next to him, reclaiming his arm as Lux threw the street runner into gear.

“Get used to it. I suspect Clu’s going to want to show him off,” Gem said, some of her frostiness thawed as they left the red-lit sentries behind and merged with the traffic heading into the heart of the city. Lux toggled the autopilot and twisted around, leaning her chin on the back of the seat.

“ _I_ want to show him off. That is a render blessed by the Users. Sorry, Tron, but it’s the truth.”

“If you say so,” he said quietly. There was a new undercurrent to the conversation, something he couldn’t quite articulate, but Gem’s irritation had evaporated completely and suddenly without any real cause… the opposite, in fact, with the way Lux laughingly needled her.

“You can pull back now, Tron,” Gem said, patting his captured arm. He stared at her, confused, and she sighed and picked up his hand. “Your scans, little bird. Pull them back. It’s no wonder your power management is kinked up already.”

“I’m not—“ Tron started, but Lux reached out to run slightly tingly fingers along his arm and shook her head.

“You _are_. Wow… I’ve never seen gain _that_ high.”

“You used to run scans constantly as security, yes?” Gem said, and Tron nodded, eyes cutting between the two as they traded glances. “Whole sectors at least, and often the whole system?”

“I was lead monitor,” Tron said flatly.

“Our scans don’t work like that. For one thing, it’s a touch-scan,” Lux said, suddenly all business, “Running them when you’re alone will just drain you.. and it looks to me like you’ve been leaving them run since you woke up.”

“It will take a while to break the old reflex,” Gem put in smoothly, “You aren’t our first re-purpose to train. _Relax_. No one in this vehicle is a threat to you.” The words were accompanied by a warm pulse of soothing calm, shockingly strong, and Tron couldn’t help a low groan when the line of tension in his back gave way suddenly.

“What did you—“

“You’ll find out when we get where we’re going,” Lux said, another spine-melting burst of _calm/comfort_ running directly through his circuits. “C’mon.. turn off for a nano.”

The sense of _Gem_ in the back of his processes finally cut out, and now Tron could trace the command for what it was. There was a bewildering array of scan options available, given directory tags that didn’t quite make sense, but even without the extra input Tron refrained from cycling through each when he saw the exasperated looks he was getting from _both_ Sirens. Gem patted his arm and settled herself along his side, leaning as if a little tired, and Lux shook her head with a half-smile.

“You are glitching stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’m told,” he said, a low rumble in his tone from the lingering effects of the energy pulses. Lux laughed again, turning back to the controls and disengaging the autopilot.

He thought they were headed directly for the Arena, but instead Lux guided the runner deeper into traffic, waving jauntily back when transport programs called out to the passing Sirens. Soon enough, the angular beacon of the Line loomed above them, and Lux stopped them right in front of the door guards. Those combat programs still showed the white circuits of neutral system functions, and one broke off from the detachment to meet the runner.

“Greetings, programs,” the guard said, and even with the helmet hiding half his face he seemed to stare in open curiosity. Tron flinched back, or tried to, but Gem held him still, feeding another little burst of _calm_ through his circuits.

“Hey, Boomer,” Lux said, stretching and setting the controls on standby. “Just the program we need… we have a new little bird to check into the support suite.”

“So I can see,” the guard—Boomer, and Tron was going to need to _learn_ the IDs—said, and offered Tron his palm. “I can check you in, and I’ll take the runner back to the garage.”

“Thanks, love,” Lux said, giving the guard a kiss on the cheek as she hopped out of the seat and stretched. Gem pushed Tron until he likewise left the runner, leaving him face-to-face with the security check-in.

The procedure was familiar, though it was strange to complete it from the _other_ side. Tron pressed his palm to Boomer’s, feeling the rushing prickle of a touch-scan as his ID was checked and logged. If the Line’s dedicated security was still functioning normally, his ID was being passed to all the other guards, clearing him for access to.. well, whatever areas Sirens had access to. Even as lead monitor, Tron had never pushed much to examine all the nooks and crannies of the building that support services occupied once the system was running at capacity. There had been too much else to worry about, and all his scanning had ever returned was system-normal responses.

In short order, he had been herded into the elevator and out again somewhere in the mid-levels. The floor Gem had chosen was primarily open space, with a few other Sirens lounging and talking quietly and one spinning dizzily in a hoop suspended from the ceiling. Oddly, it looked to Tron’s eyes more like a _briefing room_ than anything else, and the impression wasn’t helped by the prominent schedule board that took up most of the space on one wall. His ID had been added to the bottom of the list, and there was already an engagement marked _Arena-Clu-indeterminate_ slated for five millicycles from now.

“Nice to see you back,” said a pile of pillows on one of the low couches, which was quickly revealed to be another male Siren with short, spiked blond hair and pale green eyes offset by a warm-brown skin render. The pillow-pile giggled and another head popped up, this Siren sporting long hair banded in blonde and orange. Both watched with interest as Tron was led into the room and steered to a chair in the same conversation group.

“Katal. Coral,” Gem said, not letting go of Tron’s arm until he was safely settled in what was a surprisingly squishy chair. Gem herself perched on the armrest as if still reluctant to have him out of reach for any length of time. Lux, meanwhile, claimed a few of the lost pillows and settled on the floor in the middle, kicking her feet idly.

“So the board _wasn’t_ lying,” Coral said, leaning forward even as Tron shrank back a little. “We all heard you were dead… it’s nice to be wrong.”

“Is it?” The words spilled out, bitter hurt finally overtaking the numbness and enforced calm of the last millicycles. “You don’t have to _pretend_. You also don’t need to disrupt your operations… I know why Clu left me alive.”

And Tron would give anything to have been left for dead after all. A _prize_ , stripped of functionality without the mercy of having _memory_ wiped as well… derezz was far preferable, only Clu had already neatly bypassed the strong impulse to suicide with directive and carefully-picked orders. _Be ready_. Oh _yes_ , be ready to be the object of interface and obsession until the administrator moved on and tossed him to his lieutenants. Tron shuddered in revulsion of the memory of that momentary unfiltered contact with Dyson.

“Are you _kidding_? Do you have any idea how long we’ve been trying to get Clu to even show an _interest_ in one of us?” Lux said, staring up at him.

“It _is_ nice to be wrong,” Coral said firmly, sliding out of the pillows to take the other arm of Tron’s chair, her hands light on his shoulders. “That’s not pretending. I know you’ve been through a lot and it’s not fair what happened, but—“

“ _Stop_ ,” Tron said, shrugging off the touch as he felt another creeping wave of calm start again. “Stop doing that!”

“When you stop carrying on like a hysterical beta, we will,” Gem said, ice back in her voice and frost back in the pale blue of her eyes as she glared at him. She had maneuvered in front of him, and her hands wrapped with bruising force around his wrists. There was no power-pulse this time, no feed of emotion against his own, but Tron didn’t _need_ his strange new scans to detect seething _fury_ in her every line.

“Poor Tron. He lost a fight. Nevermind that he threw himself against terrible odds, or that he saved the User he meant to protect… no, he had to _survive_ and that was _terrible_ ,” she snarled, “Because he was so close to derezz he had to have a new function installed, and because _Siren_ was the worst possible thing he could be. Poor, _poor_ Tron. So then he threw his little temper-tantrum pity-party, and instead of using the time he had to learn his new function, he just gave up. Because he was a _Siren_ , and he was too _afraid_ to learn what that meant.

“Am I parsing right so far, Tron? Because listen to _me_ , little bird. In five millicycles we are packing you up and taking you to Clu in the Arena, whether you are _ready_ for it or _not_. You can either sit here, in this chair, and _lament_ your poor lost function, or you can get up and learn how to be something besides _used_. It’s your decision… but I wouldn’t wait too long. The system clock ticks on no matter how sorry for yourself you feel.”

Gem released him with a push, Coral scrambling out of the way as he fell back into the chair, and stalked out, disappearing into a side-corridor. Lux, covering her mouth, raced after, Coral on her heels. Katal just shrugged and re-arranged himself on the couch, stretching out with a tired yawn.

“Don’t look at _me_ ,” the other Siren said.

Tron stared at his hands instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Eyes closed, Tron held on to the bottom of the stool with grim determination, unable to move much anyway thanks to the paw of a hand holding his chin. He couldn’t _quite_ blame Katal for the uncomfortable grip, either, considering the other two times he’d flinched and ruined the careful work. The stick was just too close to vulnerable sensors for comfort, and his protests hadn’t done anything to negate the order that his eyes be outlined in dark pigment.

“Energy profile. Katal,” Gem called, and Tron could almost hear the smirk in her voice.

“Balanced. Levels within tolerance. He—ah—“ Tron trailed off, feeling a flush of embarrassment run through his circuits.

“Spit it out.”

“He cycled a lot of charge within the last millicycle. Why do I have to pick _that_ up?”

“Carrying too much charge for too long can damage power flow, and without regular discharge flows can kink, block, and become uncomfortable or painful with long-term detrimental effects on power management. Which you _know_ considering the number of times you’ve been here to get flow-work done in your _other_ role,” Gem said.

“Or sleeping. Most of the time it was all the same,” chimed in a new voice thoughtfully. Beryl. She was still something of a shock, and it had been two millicycles since she walked into Gem’s sensor tutorial, _kissed_ him, and proclaimed his suit template needed _heels_. She had been heckling good-naturedly ever since, and her schedule meant that she was going to be among those traveling to the Arena with him. It was still an open query if he should be grateful or appalled that she had attached herself to him.

“I’m right _here_ ,” Tron said instead, huffing as Katal tilted his head from side to side critically.

“You’re done. Rub at your eyes, and I am derezzing you. Slowly,” Katal said _finally_ , and let him go. Tron rubbed his chin and opened his eyes to catch a near-stranger reflected in the glass wall of the staging room Gem had selected for them. The white material and blue circuit-glow of his gridsuit called very old memory tags of Encom, but the _rest_ … Beryl had gotten her way about the heeled boots. And the shimmer of fine blue glitter in his hair, which he honestly couldn’t even _see_ unless he was concentrating on looking for it. The pigment lining his eyes had been Katal’s contribution, magnifying the blue tones and minimizing the gray that had dominated without. The combined effect was startling. It wasn’t the elaborate template modification that some of the others in the room sported, but he _looked_ the part of a Siren.

“Beryl. State read,” Gem said, her reflection smirking at him. Beryl, who was in the middle of doing.. something with her hair, rolled her eyes and offered her hand. Tron took it, cautiously opening up the requisite scan. Immediately, he could feel a thread of _anticipation/amusement/impatience_ like bright little firecracker-bursts. She radiated well-being, relaxed and happy, a program in her element, and there was a distinct curl of _friend-fond_ , a little active ping-back that made Tron jump and let the contact go early.

“What was that?” he said, ignoring Gem’s drill for the moment.

“Projection,” Beryl said with a broad wink before she sank her fingers into the ink-black cloud of her hair and clipped it back, the hair ornament featuring little shimmering projections that skimmed the top of her abundant curls independent of the larger clip that held it.

“An advanced technique,” Gem said, “But her state?”

“She’s… content. Amused by my reactions. Looking forward to the Games cycle. Annoyed at manually doing her hair,” Tron reported dutifully.

“Huh.. I was trying to mask that. You’re _sensitive_ ,” Beryl said, giving her hairstyle a few tugs and making a face at her reflection.

“That can be a double-edged sword,” Gem said to Tron’s confused look, “You’ll have to be careful, since even without scans you’ll probably pick up emotional transference easily and strongly compared to baseline.”

“Might not be such a bad thing right now,” Katal said, putting away the pigment kit before he started rifling through his own collection of suit templates. Tron nodded, frowning. The memory file of his awakening in this new state was easy enough to access, and the new intelligence just left the whole encounter even more of a tangled knot of what was him, what was Clu, and what was directive.

“Yes, but it complicates things,” Gem said, and she got up to pace in tight circles, scowling to herself.

“What’s to complicate?” Tron said with a snort. He couldn’t _not_ follow a direct order with this new directive structure, and Clu’s intent had seemed crystal clear when they’d parted. The only difference was the potential for a larger audience this time… which he _was not_ going to contemplate.

“You have to decide how you’re going to play this,” Katal said, “And heavy emotional transference is always about as useful as a varnish error when it comes to strategy.”

“There’s nothing to _strategize_.”

“All right, Tron. You have an assignment,” Gem said, and Tron let any other retort waiting in queue die because the _edge_ was back in her tone. “You’re going to tell me why Clu repurposed you.”

“He already _told me_ as much—“

“He told you why he _thinks_ he repurposed you. Do you honestly believe our _perfect_ administrator would spend two cycles and a great deal of effort aside on _you_ just to have an aesthetically pleasing doll to interface with? It would have been far easier to let you derezz and restore from backup with a clean slate,” Gem said archly.

“He said he wanted… no, he earned a prize,” Tron said softly.

“And perhaps that’s a piece of the puzzle. You said you didn’t want to be _used_. This is the first step to avoiding that fate.”

“And steps or not, we’re going to be late if we stick around here any longer,” Beryl said, hopping to her feet. Tron rose a little more slowly. The high heels on the suit template took some getting used to with how they changed his height and balance, but he could still _run_ in them, which was good with the speed at which they decamped the staging room and headed into the garage. Boomer had a street runner going, and didn’t budge from the driver’s seat as the rest of them piled into the vehicle.

It was strange being so much a _passenger_ , with nothing more to do than watch the dizzying heights of the city’s towers flash by and wonder what the future held. The road to the Arena was already full of traffic, and traveling it took a great deal of creative weaving through that did nothing for the formless, restless worry that kept trying to overtake Tron’s processes. _Be ready_ , he said. Be ready for _what_?

At the Arena, Gem and Katal quickly made themselves scarce, convening with other Sirens more-or-less permanently assigned there to run the Games. Beryl lingered, looped her arm in his, and led them both off to the lift for what Flynn had jokingly called the VIP section. The throneship was not yet docked, the secondary observation lounge offering a view of the Disk Wars platforms undergoing configuration checks and the sea of blues and whites and soft greens filling the stands, just like in cycles past. Only this time the combatants were split between those with a calling to violence and those opposed to Clu’s leadership, and not so many would be walking away intact from the competitions.

“You’ll do fine. You’ll _be_ fine,” Beryl said, wrapping her arms around Tron loosely as a gleam of gold appeared on the horizon and swiftly grew larger.

“What if I can’t?” he whispered. He was never meant for this, never programmed for it, and there wasn’t enough _time_ to know what he needed to know.

“We give them what they need to keep the system running,” she said, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and a frission of _calm_ through his circuits. “Trust your instincts. Remember to look for what Gem asked. We’ll come find you when it’s time.”

And then she was gone.

Tron clasped his hands together in front of him and swallowed as the throneship completed docking, obscuring the windows in blackness until both window and the vehicle’s rear wall derezzed. The interior of the ship was alien, the crisp white lights of before replaced with a golden glow that bred shadows. Red-lit sentries filed out to stand guard over the lounge’s entry points, followed moments later by higher-ranked security programs making their way out for the down-cycle. Their masks were up, leaving Tron to guess if any of them had been programs he knew once upon a time.

“On time and off a leash. I’m impressed.”

_Dyson_. There was a distinct swagger as he entered the lounge on the heels of the other Black Guard, and instead of detouring around Tron as the others had, he trailed a lazy fingertip down the circuit on Tron’s arm. The dark anticipation was still there, almost smothering, even without an active scan.

“ _He’s_ waiting… unless you’d like to pass some time with me, old friend. I’m sure we could come up with a reason for your delay,” Dyson purred, tugging on the arm he’d captured. Tron didn’t need a scan at all to know his intent, probably counting on the dramatic difference in their relative strength now to get what he wanted.

Tron had to _think_ about it, running old memory files before he found the move-set he wanted, but he could _feel_ a feral grin start when the calculation didn’t call even the slightest twinge of pain. Clu might have safeguarded himself against potential reprisal… but not his lieutenants. Even if combat was no longer at the level of ingrained reflex and no longer an _optimal_ choice, he had spent too many cycles fighting and training others with different capacities to fight to be _helpless_ now. He moved with Dyson’s pull, sliding his arm out of the grip and ducking into the other program’s lunge. From there it was easy to throw him to the ground, managing the trajectory of it so that Dyson landed heavily on his dock, even if Tron couldn’t manage to throw him into the _wall_ like he wanted to.

As tempting as it was to kick Dyson while he was down… he still wasn’t completely acclimated to the boots. There was a pair of Guard still waiting, body language indicating shock, possibly a bit of lag. Definitely time to go—they might be bound to answer to Dyson’s orders, and Tron was not optimistic about managing to fight all three in this state. That sort of surprise was generally only successful _once_. Instead, he summoned a smirk for their benefit and took himself into the throneship, keeping his walk slow and unconcerned as Dyson muttered and rebooted in his wake.

Voices ahead. Tron recognized Jarvis, reciting the schedule quietly as the stands roared loudly enough to nearly drown the musical cue playing outside. Clu was sprawled in the wide command chair, helmet rezzed. The administrator held up one hand, and Jarvis’s words died out, his eyes going almost comically wide as he finally caught Tron’s approach.

“Leave us,” Clu said, the helmet’s vocal distortion giving him an almost menacing deeper flange. Jarvis bowed hastily and scurried out, giving Tron a wide berth. Clu beckoned, and with a deep breath Tron stepped forward, feeling _now_ like he was going into battle. The helmet didn’t give anything away as Clu watched him approach and stop two steps away from the chair.

“Now don’t be like that,” Clu purred, patting his thigh. “Sit. Keep me company.”

Tron came forward another step only to be practically lifted off his feet and settled in Clu’s lap with a low laugh. One hand stayed plastered to the circuit that ran the length of his suit’s torso, fingers spread along the curving line of light at his waist. Already Tron could pick up _desire/possessive_ radiating from Clu like the clear signal of an energy pool. Slowly, but impossible to miss, Clu traced his thumb along the circuit, up and down in a leisurely, teasing stroke.

“I didn’t think it was _company_ you wanted,” Tron said, shifting to sit a little more comfortably. There was more than enough room in the throne-like command chair for them both, but it proved difficult to minimize the bright, hot points where their circuits were in contact with Clu’s arm around him as unyielding as any shackle.

“You wound me,” Clu said, amusement unhidden by the helmet, “And after you put so much effort into aesthetics, too. Can’t I enjoy the view?”

“You have plenty of _view_ without me here,” Tron snapped back. Outside, one of the Arena’s scripts announced the beginning of the first elimination round. The sound amplification in the boxes soon brought the din of fighting, the glassine fall of loose voxels and cut-off yells of pain as the less gifted among the combatants were quickly derezzed. Even if the sound wasn’t working… the bloodthirsty roars from the audience told the tale well enough. He refused to look. His time in the MCP’s confinement had destroyed any taste he might have had for such deadly earnestness in what should be _recreation_.

“Shush. Or perhaps I’ll find a better use for your mouth,” Clu growled. _Anticipation/lust/approval_ filtered through that hot point on his side, steady fingers still sliding slowly up and down the circuit. The touch was almost fixed in place, a creeping slow heat building little flickers of violet in the blue along the contact, sharp contrast with the urgent explorations of their last encounter.

They fell into silence. The game continued on. Tron was no closer to answering Gem’s question.

Why _had_ he been repurposed? The puzzle seemed to have new urgency as Clu’s paradoxical behavior continued into the second elimination. Cautiously, mindful of the warnings given earlier and the open contact already shivering a slow burn through his circuits, Tron opened a state-scan.

The banked heat of their contact was much higher, sending shuddering warmth through Tron’s circuits. Under it hid a quiet dissatisfaction. Clu’s takeover was not—and _had_ not—been as smooth as he wanted, evidenced by the number of dissenters meeting the end of their runtime in the Arena. True, they could be restored from the backup of their identity disks, the key reason _why_ Flynn had elected to design all of the Grid’s programs with such a backup despite the obvious route to tampering. Their functions would not be lost, but memory? Personality? Re-rezz was heartbreakingly chancy even _with_ an intact identity disk to use as a restore point, as they had both learned back in 511 so many cycles ago. Still. It was the same contradiction of his own continuing existence. Clu’s tasklist would be _easier_ with a set of blanked restores, not longer-running functions with their questions and doubts and memories of _before_.

The game dragged on. The combatants left were all skilled, all driven by the need to survive. Tron let the scan run, _interest_ as good a distraction as any. He could almost taste the warm gold light, sweet and heavy with charge, _anticipation_ throbbing lowly through his circuits. Clu was tired. They both were—Tron too wired with despair and worry and then too busy trying to speed-run tutorial to sleep. Still Clu’s fingers stroked lightly against Tron’s hip, almost affectionate.

“See something you like?” Clu said, teasing, and when had he let the helmet derezz? Tron blinked, fuzzy-headed, to see his fingers splayed over the logic ladder on Clu’s chest, and both of them showing pulses of violet now. The winner had been announced and led off, no doubt to be tended by the other Sirens.

“Would you prefer if I lied?” Tron replied, snorting, but he couldn’t quite find the will to move.

“No. Tron… Never lie to me,” Clu said, frowning, and brushed his fingers through Tron’s hair. He shivered, feeling directive respond to the strange order, and nodded acknowledgement. A smirk crept into Clu’s expression, and he nudged Tron off his lap before taking the Siren’s hands in his.

“Come on. I can think of more comfortable places to be.”

Holding on perhaps a bit more tightly than necessary, Tron followed him deeper into the ship.


	4. Chapter 4

Flynn’s taste for the extravagant had clearly been inherited by Clu. The room—personal quarters, tucked into the shielded heart of the ship—seemed easily big enough to hold _two_ ordinary such spaces, and perhaps once had. Tron had a fleeting impression of a workstation, calls dormant and tools organized with perfect precision, but the administrator pulled him toward the bed that dominated the space. Easily big enough to hold a hex’s worth of programs, the platform held a nest of cushions and blankets.

Clu let himself fall back into it, pulling Tron along with a low laugh before he leaned up for a kiss. Tron caught himself before he could end up sprawled on top, but only just, and the distraction was more than adequate for Clu to claim his mouth. It was a slow, lazy slide of tongues that re-lit the _heat_ dancing latent in Tron’s circuits. Broad hands traced the path of the circuits on his suit, sending pulses of violet _want_ straight into Tron’s core, before reaching and cupping the curve of his ass. He groaned into the kiss, his own hands grabbing fistfuls of blanket as Clu kneaded the tense muscle through the thin material.

“So shy,” Clu murmured as they broke apart, and Tron tried to catch his breath with a shudder. “You can _touch_ , you know.”

“You’re assuming I— _ah!—_ want to,” Tron growled, a possessive squeeze cutting him off for a moment.

“And make me do all the work? You’re so cruel.”

“No more than _you_.”

“I can _show you_ cruel,” Clu said, baring his teeth before he leaned up and nipped the juncture of Tron’s neck and shoulder, right in the still-repairing place he had been bitten before. There were no circuits exposed, but a quicksilver flash of pleasure carried through anyway alongside the renewed ache. Clu laughed at Tron’s gasp and pulled them both up the bed to settle in the middle of the pillow-nest.

“Hold still,” he said, sliding his hands back up Tron’s sides before he tapped the head of the platform. A panel slid away, revealing a storage unit. Tron caught sight of datapads, a generator unit for light-rope, and a small box that the administrator snatched up and opened with a smirk. Coiled inside was a collar-piece, inlaid with a delicate, dormant circuit pattern. A functional collar-piece—there was also a ring set in the middle of the material, and from it dangled what looked like a tiny data-hex.

“You can’t be serious,” Tron said, but the most he could manage was a flinch back as Clu traced fingertips over his collar and derezzed the suit there.

“Oh, but I am,” Clu said, fingertip playing along the circuitry ringing Tron’s neck until he had to bite back a whimper. “I doubt very much that Gem will let you stay idle when I’m busy, but you are _mine_. No-one gets to have you without _my_ permission, including certain programs who think I don’t watch exterior camera feeds. Maybe if you’re good, I won’t break in the _leash_ this millicycle.”

The collar-piece clicked into place snugly, covering up the band of circuits, but the inlay transmitted touch just as effectively as bare shell once it was properly bound to his system. Clu hooked a finger into the collar’s ring and pulled him down for another kiss, _smug_ coloring the simpler pleasure that transmitted along Tron’s circuits as they touched. Belatedly, he realized he was still state-scanning and cancelled the command, muting but not quite stopping the trickle of emotion along the contact between them. It was enough to keep him from being overwhelmed, locking out the echo of pleasure from seeing _himself_ with such an obvious mark of ownership.

“What? Nothing to say?” Clu was still watching him, amused. Tron pushed away, sitting up to straddle Clu’s hips, and gasped at the way the armored gridsuit rubbed rough against charged circuits.

“Not to you,” Tron said.

“No lectures? I’m surprised,” Clu said, bucking up with a wicked grin as his hands resumed their place at Tron’s hips, fingers teasing the lines there.

“You didn’t listen the other hundred times.” Tron’s words were a little breathless at the snap of _hot/want_ that sparked between them. Was it _always_ like this for Sirens? Always open to the storms of feeling that flowed through their charges?

“ _Touch_ , Tron,” Clu rumbled, snagging his wrists and resting his hands on the terrifyingly solid expanse of chest, prickly command sending the gloves and arms of Tron’s suit flickering into nonexistence. “It’s only fair.”

“For who?” Still, he traced the logic ladder with a careful touch, watching violet flare in his wake coupled with _yes/mine/heat_ that pulsed straight into his core. Clu derezzed more of the white-and-silver suit, sweeping a line up until he was bare to the thighs and then tracing a slow path down the intricate pattern of light on his back. Biting back a hiss as his rapidly-hardening cock came free, Tron spread his fingers experimentally, watching as battle armor pixelated away to expose the delicate tracery of Clu’s skin-circuits. Some landmarks were still there, a faint asymmetry in the pattern of nodes that Tron hesitantly traced. The circuits were hot, waves of cooler hues washing over the bright gold in time with each brush of Tron’s fingers over collarbone and shoulders. Clu’s armor fled before the slow exploration, and the admin sucked in a breath whenever he found a particularly sensitive patch. Clu’s own touches stayed sparse, circling the large nodes on the small of Tron’s back with one hand while the other drifted back and forth over the border between suit and skin on his thigh. Just enough to keep him running hot, teasing pressure that disappeared whenever he started to lean into it.

“Want something?” Clu said, an almost-purr underlying the words as his hands swept along the circuits over Tron’s hips and thighs, avoiding the violet glow of the cock twitching for attention. Tron felt his circuits flush with more than just echoing pleasure and scowled down at Clu, raking his nails lightly over purple-stained circuits. Clu _groaned_ , the sound triggering an unexpected hot shudder in Tron’s own core, and before he had quite processed _why_ , he did it again.

This time Clu bucked, grabbing Tron’s legs and flipping their positions, and drew a startled cry from the Siren as they landed back among the pillows. Tron grabbed at Clu’s shoulders, touching off more _want/hot_ flares as his fingers skittered over newly-bared circuits on Clu’s back. Clu finally let his suit derezz back to the dock and levered up to his elbows slowly, dragging their circuits together. Tron arched into it, moaning as the feedback crackled through.

“Tell me what you want,” Clu said, mouthing at the damage he’d done to Tron’s neck during their last encounter as his hands slid down to Tron’s ass and _squeezed_.

“ _Nnn_ —get off.”

“You’re clinging too hard.”

Tron started at that, reality chilling him for a nanocycle. He _was_ clinging—one leg hiked up to curl around Clu’s and his arms wrapped tight around broad shoulders, fingers tracing along a back circuit. He _shouldn’t_ be, and the scan was _cut_.

Shaking, Tron let go, only Clu followed him down into the pillows and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, “Just _let_ me…”

“I don’t have a _choice_ ,” Tron said bleakly, shutting his eyes against the gold-violet glow. The pulse-beat of high charge was throbbing along every circuit line, and for a long micro it was the only sensation that registered. But… did it put the lie to this strange tenderness or his protests? It felt like a betrayal to enjoy this, but how much could he honestly ascribe to emotional transference? How much did it _matter_?

Why _had_ he been repurposed?

Clu growled, _frustration_ hissing along their contact, and Tron shuddered as fingers wrapped around his cock and stroked roughly, dragging him back to the here-and-now. He opened his eyes to Clu’s thunderous look, _felt_ him on the edge of another mercurial shift of mood, one perhaps more dangerous than the indulgent lover of before.

_We give them what they need_ , Beryl had said. And _trust your instincts_.

Daring, Tron followed the first impulse to cross his processes. He leaned up to catch the beginnings of Clu’s frown in a kiss, nipping the unresponsive lower lip until the administrator gasped and let Tron dart his tongue in. It tasted of sweetness and static, and Tron could _feel_ him relax into it, a brief flicker of _confusion/desire_ sweeping the cloud of nascent fury away. Clu pressed him down into the pillows, his own length hot against Tron’s as he stroked them both, _slowly_.

“What do you want, Tron?” he rumbled, eyes half-closed as Tron ran a curious hand through his hair and scritched. Tron licked his lips, trying to collect thoughts scattered by the resumption of building charge. What was the right answer? He tried to engage his voice, but all that came out was a strangled noise as Clu shifted his weight and thrust against him.

“You moan beautifully, but that’s not an answer,” Clu whispered, licking at the edge of Tron’s ear. With a stuttering growl of his own, the Siren reached blindly and caught one of Clu’s hands on its way down his side. Tron twined his fingers with Clu’s, clinging tightly.

“Stop teasing,” he said finally, watching the way violet danced briefly over Clu’s eyes when the administrator grinned down at him.

“As you wish,” Clu said, bringing up his captured hand and kissing Tron’s fingers before releasing him. “Turn over.”

Swallowing, Tron did as he was told, levering up on his elbows to see what Clu was doing. The other program smirked and ran two fingers over the circuit lines on Tron’s hips, guiding him up on his knees, before continuing down onto the stripe that decorated the suit. Still teasing the lines on his legs, Clu held two fingers to Tron’s lips, _intent_ easy enough to parse. Trying to keep his breathing steady, Tron kissed the fingertips before sucking them in, feeling the crackle of the circuits buzzing on his tongue as he licked along the warm lines.

Clu pulled away what almost felt like too soon with a low huff, circling the sensitive flesh at Tron’s entrance before sliding slowly inside, catching the internal array there with a flash of heat that dragged a moan out of the Siren. A low laugh met the moaning, fingers stroking and stretching and teasing until Tron’s arms gave out, trembling too hard to support his weight.

“I thought you were going to _stop_ ,” he said, half-muffled by pillows and breathless, the complaint half a groan.

“Never said _when_ ,” Clu said, self-satisfaction punctuated by a hard thrust of fingers against an internal node that had Tron shuddering and hanging on to the blanket for dear life. Overload was so _close_ , burning through his lines, and he whined when Clu did it again and followed it up with a long lick to his back circuits.

“Shhhh.. I’ll stop, I’ll stop,” Clu said, pulling out and leaning away. Tron _hissed_ , trying to summon the coordination to lever back up when his limbs felt like barely more than a wireframe.

“ _Clu._ ” Amazingly, the snarl wasn’t at all as shuddery as he felt.

“You wanted me to stop teasing you.”

“ _Clu!”_

“Use your words, Tron. What do you want?”

“ _Do it_.” He was _not_ going to beg, no matter how much every little twitch sent sparks zinging across his senses. Half-twisting, Tron glared, or tried to. Clu was leaning back on his heels, stroking himself and watching Tron shake with a hot, intent look that pulsed _want_ from core to fingertips.

“So vague,” Clu murmured, smirk getting wider as Tron bared his teeth. “I think you’d actually try to bite me.”

“Stop _stalling_.”

“Hmmm.. close enough,” Clu said, wasting neither time nor movement in lining himself up. Tron closed his eyes, bracing, and hissed as the hot, wide length slid home.

“Better?” The question was crooned as Clu leaned over him, heavy _hot/possessive_ sinking into every circuit as he slowly pulled out and drove in again. Words fled, and all Tron could do was nod, shuddering and arching back against the next slow thrust, craving _more/now/completion_. Clu’s hand caught his, coaxing his fingers out of the blanket as they shifted, finding a better angle as Clu’s thrusts slowly sped up.

He was too strong, overwhelmingly so, slamming in hard and fast, and Tron whimpered between breaths at the fireworks-crackle of each stroke against his core until it was a blurry mess of helpless _want/need_ and Clu’s rumbling moans vibrating through them both. It couldn’t last, speed and power belying desperation, and with a hoarse shout Clu overloaded, shoving Tron down into the bed as the power exchange made him _burn_ , creeping closer and closer to the edge. Clu kept thrusting, shuddering with effort, until the charge _caught_ and Tron keened his own release, sensory input whiting out.

He came back to himself in a daze, limbs refusing response and Clu settled heavily over him, nosing the damp hair at the nape of his neck. Their hands were still clutched together, the violet swimming slowly back to default colors, and the exhaustion of the last few millicycles was catching up.

Tron yawned, squeezing Clu’s hand. The administrator grumbled and shifted them both onto their sides, drew the insulating blanket over them both before curling possessively around the Siren and mouthing lazily at the circuit just under his collar.

“Mine,” he purred, tracing his free hand along the circular circuit on Tron’s chest before subsiding. Tron shuddered, overstimulated by the feedback but too worn out to shift out of the circle of Clu’s arms.

“Yes,” Tron whispered, and perhaps that was a fragment of the answer he was looking for, but his processes were too furred to put it together.

The sleepiness seemed catching, though, and after a few moments more Clu settled, lights dimming into hibernation. Tron struggled to keep his own eyes open, to pull together enough strength to re-rezz his suit and take himself out. Staying felt too comfortable, too seductive, like sliding into a dangerous unknown, but he didn’t have reserves _left_ to keep fighting.

A short rest. He had earned that, at least, and with a sigh Tron let himself finally fall into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

“—Theta and Rho. I don’t care who you have to derezz, but get it _done_.”

“At once, Administrator.”

Tron blinked blearily awake, torn for a moment between pulling the blankets over his head and slipping back into hibernation and coming fully on-line. There were voices he knew. Clu, and—

“ _Reeve_?” The name was out before Tron could think to recall it, and he pushed up out of the comfortable nest to see both Clu and the masked Black Guard turn to watch him. Clu’s expression was unreadable, and the Guard’s body language…

“Do I know you?” It _was_ Reeve, the note of puzzlement through the helmet proof enough because how many times had Tron heard the same thing? They had worked together for hectocycles. Reeve had been one of the early installs to the suite, not long after Dyson, and the red circuits seemed almost as unthinkable as the complete lack of recognition. The lack of recognition, as if memory had been _wiped_.

“ _You—_ “ Tron started, turning to Clu, as the administrator raised a hand and clapped the Guard on the shoulder.

“Run along. I’ll introduce you all to your new Siren later,” Clu said, and Reeve nodded and departed with a smart salute.

“You wiped him.”

“And?”

“How many of them did you—“

“Everyone in gamma tier and above is loyal to me. Don’t get any ideas. And I wouldn’t bother trying to trade war stories. I’m not having you ruin all my work,” Clu said, “But look on the bright side. Most of them have no idea who you _were_ either.”

Tron opened his mouth to retort and closed it again, frowning at the part of himself that was _relieved_ to hear the addendum. Clu turned back to his desk, fingers flicking through the feeds as he relayed orders to the various section heads. There was another call up too. A system scan, though not as complex as the specialized scans he had once been able to run. It took a moment to recognize the ID being searched, and Tron shook his head when it registered. _Flynn_. So Gem was right. No one had any idea where the User was.

Something else about the conversation was more troubling. “I thought I was your Siren.”

“Mmm?”

“You told Reeve that you would ‘introduce you all to your new Siren.’ I didn’t think you learned how to share that quickly.”

Clu sighed and paused the feeds before he got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “As much as I would _enjoy_ having you naked at my feet at all times, that would be a tragic waste of system resources.”

He leaned in for a kiss. Tron debated denying the unspoken request, but the memory of that frustrated rage so narrowly averted earlier decided him, and he opened his mouth to it. It called only the barest flicker of warmth despite the charge he could sense in Clu, systems too depleted again for anything but pure touch. When _had_ he last taken in power? The patch, when he woke?

“Your primary responsibility will be to keep my Guard in good condition,” Clu said once he had backed off, smirking. “They will be your client-base. You will not do open-call engagements. Aside from that… When I call for you, you will come. Our schedules are currently synchronized, and if I am in the city, you will come for the down-cycle. Easy, hmm?”

“How generous,” Tron said flatly. Clu’s expression flashed irritation, and a hand fisted in Tron’s hair and pulled until the Siren’s head was bowed back. Tron’s own fists curled in the blanket, the urge to lash out halted by a burst of errors.

“I am always generous to those who _obey me_. Good help is hard to find,” Clu said, tugging again to make the pose just shy of painful. “Including _you_. Or would you rather I throw you to the rest of the Grid? Set you to fulfilling the final requests of those in the Games, maybe? I’m sure there are plenty of programs who would be happy to let _you_ service them. Maybe that appeals?”

“If you wanted a pet, _I_ was a bad choice,” Tron ground out, hissing when Clu shook him.

“You’ll do what I say—“

“I don’t have to _like_ it.”

Even without the scan, Clu’s fury felt like a slap. Tron snarled right back, and stars burst across his vision as Clu dragged him up and slammed him into the wall. Tron clawed at the panel he was pressed against, blinding brightness fading as its purpose was revealed. An ETC, and he could feel strength bleed back into his circuits as the charge in the panel faded down to standby-grey. Clu’s weight barely gave him room to breathe, one hand still tight in his hair and the other wrapped with bruising force around one wrist.

“You’ll—“ Clu growled, but the cut-off threat felt empty, meaningless. What did he have to lose?

“That’s what pisses you off so much, isn’t it?” Tron said, words running off without him as pieces started to slide into place. _Trust your instincts_. “It isn’t enough that you have the Grid. Isn’t enough Flynn is in hiding.”

“Shut up.”

“You.. you had to wipe them. Couldn’t _convince_ them on your own. Them. _Me_.”

“Shut _up_.” Tron winced, directive tightening, conflicting. _Never lie to me, Tron_.

“You’re afraid you’re _wrong_.”

Dead silence. Just the humming of the Grid, the conduits, the faint vibration of the ship’s engines on standby. Tron could hear ragged breathing, asynchronous, and felt the pain of fingers digging into the circuits that crossed his wrist. The stalemate stretched, a full microcycle ticking by, and then Clu threw him back onto the bed. Tron barely caught himself from bouncing off and falling to the floor, the effort not helped by the heels on the boots he still had rezzed.

“I am not wrong,” the administrator growled, looming, and Tron had to bite down a laugh at the absurdity of it. It tripped old, old memory tags… a very young beta puffed up in his User’s jacket and trying to order him to start a security sweep, never mind that Tron had completed a full scan twenty microcycles before. _You’ll do what I say!_ It had been outraged, unsure, but he could _see_ the echo of it now, the same faint trace of insecurity.

“Then why are you telling _me_?” He was smiling, he knew he was smiling, laughter on the edge of it even if it was a shade broken. The administrator—puffed up in his _own_ long robe and snarl giving way to something a great deal more confused—raised his hand as if to draw his disk and then stopped, clenched his fists, and looked away.

“I— _get up_ ,” Clu said, grabbing Tron’s arm and dragging him back to his feet when he didn’t move fast enough. “And re-rezz your suit.”

“At once, Administrator,” Tron said, the white gridsuit growing smoothly over his shell. There was a faint snag at his neck, where the collar sat, and Tron had to cancel the command. The template would need altered to account for it. Clu just gave him a sour look, caught between anger and thoughtfulness, as Tron checked the edges of suit and collar, fingers brushing over the hex. He could feel it warm under his touch, stained with an impression of intense possessiveness. Simple yet elegant, as far as _do not touch_ signs went.

“The ship is docked at the central tower,” Clu said, leading them both out into the main body of the ship. His steps were fast, just a little too fast to be classed merely purposeful. Only one of the helm pods was occupied, and Jarvis was tapping at a call near the big observation windows. The scheduler’s eyes followed them, wide and disbelieving. “It should be here when you have completed your work.”

The massive Ops room lay past the throne ship’s former back window. Beryl and Gem both waited, Gem with calm detachment and Beryl trading little smiles with the sentries on door duty. Gem nodded to Clu as Tron was finally released to step down the ramp. The ambient sound level in the room hushed significantly, but Tron didn’t let his gaze wander from the other Sirens even when somewhere, someone dropped a datapad.

“I trust you were pleased with his performance,” she said, eyes flicking between the two of them. Her expression remained steadfastly neutral.

“Complete the tutorial, Gem. He’s still… unfinished,” Clu said, frowning and puzzled as Tron once more linked arms with Beryl.

“Of course.” Gem bowed, cuing Tron and Beryl to do the same, and the three of them proceeded to the lift in silence.

“So? How was it?” Beryl asked once the doors were closed and the lift in motion, “And did you keep the boots on?”

“Beryl!” Gem said, hiding her face in her hands for a moment. It didn’t quite hide her smile, and Tron realized with a start that it was the first time he’d seen a genuine smile out of her. “Can it _wait_?”

“Nope. I have a duty-trade with Farad riding on this,” Beryl said, winking broadly. “You’ll like Farad. He dances… actually, we’d better make room in your schedule for Farad-time. I bet you’re already a natural at aerials.”

“All right?” Tron said, though to which he wasn’t sure, and then shrugged.

“All right? That’s it?” she pouted up at him, which was a feat since she was nearly his height.

“If he doesn’t want to go into the bits and bytes, you can’t make him,” Gem pointed out, leaning against the side of the lift. They were nearly to ground level.

“I don’t need the bits and bytes. I need to know about the _boots_.”

“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes as the lift slowed to a stop.

“See, _I_ think that the boots would be an enhancement, and _Farad_ said that high heels look ridiculous on male renders, but— _ha_! Knew it.”

“Fine. I’ll switch the schedule,” Gem said with a snort. At ground level there were more sentries looking stoically ahead, though the crush of couriers, searches, and other minor functions weren’t so constrained. Many slowed, staring, and Tron had to look away from their confused and speculative gazes.

“Head up,” Gem murmured as she pressed close to his other side and Beryl’s grip tightened on his arm. “You are a Siren. A jewel of the Grid. These functions should count themselves lucky to get to _see_ you up close.”

“Do you really believe that?” Tron replied, just above a whisper, but he raised his eyes as directed.

“The promise of the rare and exotic is great positive reinforcement.”

“Of what?”

“Continuing on, of course,” Gem said, her smile the more familiar sly look. “But you can’t sell it unless you _act_ like it.”

“I think that fetch is going to—ooh. Right into the column,” Beryl added, “I wish they’d run into columns for _me_.”

“It’s probably dismay.”

“You just can’t make out the _drooling_ ,” Beryl said, smirking for the benefit of the crowd, and then they were through the door. Another of the Line’s security programs was waiting with the street runner, and the close quiet of the interior was a relief.

“How is your assignment going?” Gem asked, off-hand, as the runner merged into traffic for the Line.

“I have a working theory,” Tron said, touching the hex at his throat.

“Good. You seem more grounded,” she said, nodding, before her lips twitched up. “I see we’re going to need to completely re-do all your templates.”

“ _Boots_. As far as the eye can see,” Beryl said, waving her hand for emphasis.

“Not for dancing,” Gem said.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Tron said, crossing his arms.

“If you’re good. _Maybe_.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Bundle with me. I promise I’m not annoying.”

Tron ignored the sighed proposal, running his palms lightly over warm circuits. A gentle pulse of _calm/content_ slid through easily, earning another blissed out noise from the puddle of security program currently occupying the padded bench. A last, slow slide up his back, skirting the dock, and Tron straightened out, wincing as his own back protested having been bent over so long.

“I’m heartbroken. Did you have to _stop_?” the Guard—Lovelace, flirtatiousness intact even if his memory wasn’t—said plaintively, peeking out of the headrest as Tron found a cloth to wipe away the remains of conducting gel on his hands. He flexed his fingers slowly, hands and arms almost kinked. It had taken most of the appointment slot—an _entire_ quarter-milli—to get Lovelace’s motor functions and power-flow back to optimal, snarls and stutter errors all over the Guard’s power management.

“You’re almost at the end of your appointment,” Tron said, “And somehow I think our Administrator would be cross with you if you ran off with me.”

“Not even a little running off with you? I promise I’m an excellent cuddler, I don’t have terrible taste in energy blends, and I don’t get jealous easily.”

“Now you sound like Reeve.” Tron used the thick, fuzzy cloth to start wiping down Lovelace’s back, since leftover gel itched like murder under rezzed armor. The Guard sighed aggravatedly and flopped back against the bench, making a vague gesture toward the door.

“Of course there’s already competition for who’s your favorite. I see how it is. Well, all’s fair in love and war!”

The ridiculous declaration managed to get a low laugh out of the Siren after all, and he shook his head at the grin Lovelace gave him. Another few swipes and there was no trace of the slick gel anywhere, and Tron patted Lovelace’s thigh as he stepped away from the bench.

“You’re done, and you have about thirty microcycles left. Do you need any power?” he asked, tucking the cloth away to be cleaned later and bringing the room’s lights up to a slightly brighter level. Just enough to encourage calculation back in the direction of function rather than relaxation.

“I’m going somewhere else for that,” Lovelace said, and Tron just managed to resist jumping as the Guard hugged him from behind. It was still unnerving how hands-on a lot of the Black Guard were with him, especially compared with _before_. A faint laugh, ticklish against his ear, and Lovelace gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Sure you don’t want me to express my _appreciation_? I’m told I’m good at things besides _running_ my mouth, if you get what I mean.”

“I think Clu would scatter your voxels across three sectors.”

“Can’t blame me for dreaming.” Heavy combat armor started rezzing over Lovelace’s bare shell, vivid red circuits hidden for a moment until the ones set in the suit blinked on. The helmet stayed down, the Guard too busy nuzzling Tron’s neck, at least until he touched the collar and drew back with a sigh.

“You’ll look me up if Clu ever changes his mind, right? I’m still your number one favorite.”

“I don’t have a number one favorite,” Tron said, rolling his eyes as he turned to face Lovelace, who was grinning at him.

“You like a lot of partners? _Kinky_. I’m game.”

“Go _sit_ , you bitty null-unit!”

Lovelace made a show of taking himself to the nearby couch and plumping up the cushions before he flopped dramatically into the middle of them. Tron rolled his eyes again, grateful for the space, and found a couple of glasses to fill from the power tap anyway. _He_ could use the recharge after all the energy expended getting Lovelace back into shape. He offered the second glass to the Black Guard, who took it with a nod and tasted a polite sip as Tron settled on the other end of the couch. He considered curling up and taking a rest from having to share his personal space… but there _were_ several micros left on the appointment. The Siren slouched instead, letting his feet rest in Lovelace’s lap. It seemed to be the right call, since Lovelace smiled and ran his finger along the sole of Tron’s boot, tracing the high angle of the heel.

“Do you want me to escort you to Ops?” Lovelace said after a while spent in companionable silence. “I noticed I was your last for the up-cycle.”

“I—“ Tron started, then paused. Gem was supposed to be observing, since he was still on probation for working alone. The appointment area was hers, and she had promised to declare him done with tutorial mode if the observations were favorable and assign him his own space. After the _parade_ of Black Guard wanting massaged or ornamented or, in one memorable case, fed energy crystals and given leave to complain about _everything_ , it was a bit of a shock to remember that the up-cycle was nearly _over_.

“I have a few things to finish here. I wouldn’t want to keep you,” he said, offering Lovelace a smile. The Guard saluted him with the glass.

“Bet Ryder’s taking his sweet time with Coral. He could take you back too,” Lovelace said, “If you wanted an escort, I mean.”

“I’ll think about it.” And in their own way, the Guard were as possessive of him as Clu. Tron wasn’t sure if it was an artifact of whatever loyalty code Clu had given them—though Dahl, Ryder, and Minsky had all gone over voluntarily _and_ survived the coup—or the status having _him_ on their arms implied. It probably didn’t matter too much which if the end result was the same.

Lovelace set the glass aside, watching as Tron finished draining his. The power was definitely welcome, and Gem hopefully wouldn’t scold him again for neglecting his own condition.

“So.. since I can’t convince you to run away with me and you are still _quite_ stuck here in the Line.. pick a template for me?” Lovelace said, offering Tron his disk with a smile much more shy than before. “I have to break _somebody’s_ heart or I’ll start to feel like nobody likes me.”

“Isn’t that counter-intuitive?” Tron said, though he accepted the disk gingerly. Security programs had a limited memory for templates, and most of it consisted of armor and more armor and other types of specialized armor… but Lovelace had five civilian templates even if three of them had been recently installed. Tron flicked through the options, feeling vaguely out of his depth. Ornamentation still wasn’t a skillset that came easily, too many cycles of needing the most _practical_ option in the way of appreciating the lengths to which the other Sirens went for optimal visual presentation. He supposed it worked for his current client-base, though. At least, he hadn’t heard any complaints.

“Nah. But what else is a trip upstairs going to be good for aside from getting hideously overcharged?”

The End of Line… well, that narrowed the choices down. Tron hummed and looked through again before de-coupling a couple of the templates and re-arranging the elements, a skill that he had only just been declared _passable_ in by Beryl. Tight pants, because those were essential to a proper seduction—and he could almost _hear_ the lecture—coupled with a dressier shirt and waistcoat from a different template set. Nothing more than a few dots of light on the black of the pants and shirt, but the dark grey waistcoat featured an impressive fractal design that would probably draw the attention Lovelace was after. A quick check to make sure it looked all right in the disk’s display, and Tron handed it back.

“Try that,” he said, and swung his feet back to the floor so the Guard could stand. Lovelace examined the disk and shrugged, letting the new design synch in. Armor disappeared rapidly to leave the new template in its wake, and Lovelace made an approving noise.

“I shall be sure to dedicate a drink to you, Siren,” Lovelace said, taking Tron’s hand and kissing his fingers gallantly. “But I fear I must be away.”

Tron got to his feet to escort Lovelace out as the timer chimed the end of the appointment. Lovelace offered his arm, smirking, and Tron took it with a little sniff at the ridiculous behavior. The lift, at least, wasn’t that far down the hall, and soon enough his final charge of the up-cycle was headed up to the End of Line. Tron leaned back against the wall and breathed a sigh, closing his eyes as he let himself relax for a microcycle.

“So let’s see… five proposals, two confessions of undying love, and all _eight_ appointments trying to be your favorite,” Gem said, and Tron cracked an eye open to watch her as she walked closer. “And that’s just this time. I think there’s not much more you need in terms of tutorial.”

“You forgot the six propositions for interface,” he said dryly. The wall was comfortable.

“ _You_ probably have more intelligence on that angle than I would. It’s good they like you.”

“Dare I ask why?” Gem had a surprisingly serious look on her face as she beckoned him to follow her into the lift. She punched the button for a floor two above the current one.

“If Clu ever _does_ decide to end your exclusivity… I think they’ll keep you safe. As safe as they can.”

Tron frowned, worried for the faintly haunted look on Gem’s face, and he touched her arm, feeling an old echo of _fear/revulsion/resentment_ through the touch scan before she peeled him off again with an unreadable look.

“Open permissions,” Tron said, knowing as he said it that the guess was right even as she flinched.

“You can thank the User for that,” Gem said tightly, “You’ll never lock out someone really set on interfacing with you. Right now, that collar says that there is a _world_ of pain in store for anyone who tries to force you without Clu’s express permission, but if that protection is withdrawn, or he _does_ grant leave…”

“I’m sorry. I should have said something to Flynn—“

“It wasn’t your function and it shouldn’t have been,” Gem said, giving his arm a shake, “But.. thank you.”

The lift opened on the new floor before Tron could think of anything to say, and Gem led him down the corridor to a door freshly marked with his ID. Smiling, she motioned for him to go first. Tron swallowed and keyed the door open, feeling the faint tingle as the lock scanned and recorded his ID for the first time.

The appointment space was similar to Gem’s. It was really a suite of three rooms. The first was a larger area with comfortable seating and a bench for doing massage work, storage lining the walls for various toolkits and other equipment. It opened into a second, smaller, more secluded room with a tub easily big enough to hold three or four programs with plenty of room to move. The tub wasn’t powered up, either for cleanup or soaking in warmed energy. The third was an area Tron had never had reason to touch, dominated by a bed and a little more storage for some of the more _esoteric_ items a Siren sometimes needed.

There were no personalizations or other decorative elements to the suite, and without them it seemed surprisingly bare and cold. All was white-on-white and minimal, and Tron felt surprisingly sad as he circled back to the main room and touched the couch bare of extra cushions. _Environment has a powerful effect on the reactions of your clients. You must work to make sure the environment matches the emotional response you want…_ Gem and Katal had been right, even if he hadn’t quite believed it when they had forced him to tour several of the suites and explain the choices of environmental settings.

“So I pass,” he said finally, looking down at the gleam of blue circuits on his hands. Even that was fading, the blue taking on a silvery cast that hadn’t been there when he started tutorial… was it really two decicycles ago? The routine of being passed back and forth between Clu and tutorial had numbed the feeling of time passing.

“You do. The next up-cycle is clear so you can set up this space to your own preferences. Is there anyone you’d like to clear for entry aside from us to help you?” Gem said, her expression a little too carefully blank.

“I can’t really think of anyone,” Tron said. Most of his old friends were gone… one way or another.

“I like that. You’re haunting the support levels and don’t even have the decency to go upstairs and let an old friend know you’re _alive_ ,” said a familiar voice, and Tron started to turn right as he was pulled into a tight hug. “ _Brat_. I had to find out from overhearing the damn Guard.”

“ _Shaddox_?”

“You know anyone else who has this ID? Because if you do, they owe me a crate of high-grade,” Shaddox said, pulling away long enough to grin at Tron before hugging him again. “ _Users_ , it’s good to see you.”

“Well now I’m just glad I added him to the list,” Beryl said, and Tron peeled himself out of the hug long enough to see the Siren beaming at him from the now-open doorway, her arms loaded down with cushions and a pair of heavy-duty architectural interfaces.

“You don’t need to _fuss_ anymore,” Tron said, flustered, and she grinned sharkishly and managed to find _some_ way to free a hand to swat his ass as she passed to set the materials down. Gem finally gave in and started laughing.

“We can have a _little_ celebration, can’t we?” she said as more of the others trailed in. Farad with the box of dance props that Tron had been accumulating in the practice hall. Katal with more cushions and a collection of softly-glowing crystals. Lux, who was trying to balance several bottles of refined energy _and_ a shock-staff. Pearl even appeared despite her Arena assignment, though only long enough to drop off her burden and steal a kiss.

“Little celebration, she says,” Shaddox said, giving Tron a last squeeze before finally letting him go. “Ain’t a little celebration when I get badgered out of retirement.”

It was a good thing the couch was nearby, because Tron had to hang on to the back to steady himself.

“I—what?” he said lamely, watching as Shaddox picked up one of the interfaces and patched it into the wall before lugging the other into the room with the tub. Lux giggled and rooted around in the empty cabinets for a moment before she dug a glass out of one of the boxes—how had they all multiplied?—and poured him a few fingers of something bright red and strong-smelling.

“It’s not a traditional out-of-beta party… but it’s close enough,” she said, repeating the process and raising her glass in a mock-toast. “Greetings, Siren.”

“These glasses are terrible. Did the quartermaster really give these to you?” Gem said, settling on the arm of the couch and accepting a little of the red stuff into her own glass despite the irritated look she was giving it. “The Line will always have a place for you, now.”

“I think they’re charming,” Beryl said, raiding the box and taking her own measure of energy from Lux. “Welcome home, Tron.”

“And may you figure out one cycle how to do your own eyeliner!” Katal said as he joined the circle, both box and bottle starting to travel to the others.

“I would ignore him on the eyeliner,” Farad said, “I think he started the drinking early.”

“We’re gonna have to clear some time for you to actually visit upstairs,” Shaddox said as he came back in and accepted a glass from Farad. “Wish we had time for more than a toast now, but I understand your schedule is tight.”

“It’s fine,” Tron said, still a little overwhelmed. “Thank you.”

“Well then… to our newest jewel,” Gem said, laughter in her voice as she raised her glass and drank. They all followed her example, the high-grade red warming and soothing as Tron tried a swallow. Someone—Shaddox most likely—had raided the End of Line’s supply of good stuff.

“Am I late?” Coral said, from the doorway.

“Not yet!” Beryl caroled, and Coral darted in with a shy smile.

“Next up-cycle we’ll see about introducing you to some of the Sirens on other shifts,” Gem said, patting Tron’s arm.

“That sounds wise,” Tron said, nodding. Normally mixing between shifts happened during everyone’s free time, but he had been tasked with speed-running as much as possible. It was sobering to be reminded that a simple schedule change could leave him without allies.

“Ah, free time. What’s that like?” Lux said, shaking her head. “I certainly won’t know. I got marching orders.. I’m going to accompany some of the Guard on an inspection tour of the satellite settlements. Should be fun. I’ll get to see the Grid.”

“Isn’t that a little excessive?”

“Not really. I’m technically on an inspection tour of my own,” Lux said, shrugging as she sipped her drink. “It was bound to happen since you’re going to be rotating into the schedule, exclusive or not.”

“Is Dyson going?” Coral asked, eyebrows raising. Lux nodded. “Oof. He’s high-maintenance. Check in with me before you go, huh?”

“Will do.”

“So have you given any thought to how you’ll decorate?” Beryl said, elbowing Tron in the side lightly.

“Ah.. no,” Tron said, giving the bare room and the boxes and interfaces another look.

“Ooh.. this’ll be fun, then.”

“Not if it turns out like you trying to put me in templates!”

“He has you there,” Gem said, smirking as Beryl huffed and made a show of finishing her drink.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Clu. Tron turned to see the administrator leaning on the frame of the open door, smiling indulgently.

“Clu. I—“ Tron started, keeping the wince from showing. The strangest things could set off a temper.

“What? I can’t see your new space?” Clu said, crossing into the room. The other Sirens stepped aside, giving him a clear path, and he smirked before hooking a finger into the collar’s ring and pulling Tron into a slow kiss. “Am I going to need an appointment?”

“Maybe,” Tron said, feeling the warm buzz of mischief rolling off Clu. A good mood, then. Smiling, he offered Clu the remains of his drink in hopes of keeping it going.

“Cruel,” Clu said, though he accepted the remaining swallow of red and gave the other assembled programs a pointed look. Tron caught Gem’s gaze and nodded. _Intent_ wasn’t hard to read here.

“Always a pleasure, Administrator,” Gem said smoothly, picking up the cue. “I apologize for the mess.”

“I’m sure it’ll be corrected by the next down-shift. If you’re all done hogging my Siren?”

“Of course,” Gem said, and the Sirens bowed as one, so smoothly one could almost believe they’d been slaved to Gem. Only Shaddox kept to a respectful nod, though Tron could read the worry in the flicker of his eyes between them and the tense set of his shoulders. He nodded pointedly to his friend, bringing his hands up deliberately to trace the breadth of Clu’s shoulders and scratch gently into his hair. Shaddox huffed a breath and, with a last look back, followed the others out. The door swished shut behind him, leaving the boxes and a neat stack of slightly-used glasses.

“Are you done being jealous?” Tron asked once they were safely alone.

“I could be persuaded. Aren’t you going to give me the tour?” Clu said, though the knee that wormed between Tron’s legs and the subtle press back against and over the back of the couch suggested other activity was higher in the queue.

“You’d have to let me up for that.”

“Hn. _Later_.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Warm_. He was _very_ warm, almost a little too much so, little tickles of _mischief/desire_ disrupting his dreams and pushing him back toward wakefulness. Tron grumbled, half-awake, and shuddered at the feeling of lips on the circuits of his back, followed closely by a _lick_ that brought him snapping to full capacity with a gasp.

Clu had him pulled close, on his side, back to the administrator’s chest. Fingers played lightly along Tron’s identifier as another lick landed on a silver-blue circuit on his shoulder. Both flushed purple for an instant that trailed along the circuits of his arm straight to fingertips, _amusement_ joining the other scattered impressions filtering in with the power exchange as Tron made a half-bewildered whimper. Pleasure burned along his circuits, almost as if awaiting conscious recognition of the high charge that had been building while he slept. Clu had been teasing power into his circuits for a while.

“Hello there,” Clu purred as Tron shuddered again, this time at a slow, lazy stroke to the circuits on his thigh.

“What?” Tron managed, though it was hard to _think_ past the _more/yes_ that clouded his processes.

“Shhhh.. We’re still in the Line,” Clu said, “No interruptions.”

The Line. Yes. They hadn’t made it out of the main room, though the couch ended up getting a full customization after they fell _out_ of it. Then Clu had insisted on trying the couch _again_ , once it was _perfect,_ wound up about something that he had refused to divulge. The surroundings were unfamiliar because this was _his_ suite, still in default templates, and at some point in the down-cycle Clu had carried him into the bedroom and found a light blanket to keep Tron insulated while he slept.

Clu was—perhaps _still_ —running hot despite two overloads most of a millicycle ago, _want-want-want_ almost overwhelming, but the thread of underlying nervous energy was gone. Whatever happened while Tron slept, it seemed to have calmed the Administrator down enough to actually relax. That just left the problem of the amorous program plastered against his back, radiating desire and a hint of smugness.

“Didn’t you _sleep_?” Tron grumbled, though the effect was ruined by the way his voice shook. Clu slowly pushed the blanket away, taking time to stroke and tease the circuits along Tron’s side as he went.

“Is my put-upon Siren all worn out?” Clu teased, the smugness under the _snap_ of power deepening. “Can’t keep up with me anymore, Tron?”

Tron _growled_ , reaching back to tangle his fingers in the short hair near the back of Clu’s neck. It didn’t even take much twisting to pull him into a kiss, and Tron made a point of nipping and sucking on Clu’s lip until it was quite swollen. Clu just grinned back, not at all perturbed by the tight grip on his hair. Tron caught the wandering hand, leaving the other that was still wrapped firmly around his waist, and brought it to his lips to kiss the bared gold lines on Clu’s fingers, grinning as Clu’s circuits brightened with interest.

“Maybe I was having a good dream,” Tron said archly, lapping at Clu’s fingers between words, tasting the heavy-sweet power in the deceptively delicate lines. He could feel Clu squirming a little behind him, hardness prodding his hip.

“Are you saying I’m no good?” Clu said, though now it was his turn to sound shaky as Tron sucked down his first two fingers and pulled back with an audible pop. Power hummed through the contact along Tron’s back as Clu pulled his hand free and tucked it just under Tron’s knee, raising his leg up and out of the way.

“There’s room for improvement.” _Irritation_ flashed into the _want/yes_ cycling through them, but Tron just grinned unrepentantly back.

“Hold this,” Clu said, tugging Tron’s leg up further until the position was, for a moment, almost uncomfortable. Sighing, he complied, arching and squirming against Clu, feeling him buck and hiss in a breath. Warm hands settled at Tron’s hips, and after teasing the nodes there until Tron squirmed, he thrust _in_ with a low grunt. Tron hissed faintly, more at the crackle of circuits connecting than any discomfort. Clu had been _thorough_ during their last few interfaces, fucking him until the couch had groaned with the stress being put on it, and slow and lazy was _easy_ by comparison.

He could get used to this.

The thought didn’t bring him up short. Hardly a blip, really, among the slowly building charge and the impressions that cycled between them. So much so that it took a moment to source it in _himself_ rather than Clu. Clu who was moving slowly and carefully, perhaps an apology for the surface damage glowing redly on Tron’s hips and thigh from earlier, though it was just short of the friction he _wanted_. He pushed back with another faint growl, earning a faint laugh and a harder snap of hips.

“Better,” Tron sighed.

“Pushy, pushy,” Clu said, though there was a faint strain to it. Slow and careful to avoid overloading too soon, then, hot purple circuits brushing Tron’s own and coaxing them hotter.

“You prefer me that way.”

A hum and a brief tease to the nodes at his hip were the only answer, intense concentration pushing through the warm-lazy _want_. Tron snickered breathlessly, unable to do much more than hold on to Clu’s hair since he was stuck with the job of supporting his leg. The slow, slow build was messing with his sense of the system clock, drawing time-perception out of focus. Just _want/heat/mine_ pulsing through circuits, until Clu gasped in his ear, _his_ overload pushing Tron gently over the edge.

Recovery from soft reboot was fast, and Tron huffed at the way Clu had managed to drape himself on top. It reminded him that he was _sore_ from the previous down-cycle, bites and bruises in his render aching and circuits thoroughly oversensitized until they throbbed uncomfortably now that charge was returned to normal.

“Good morning,” Clu rumbled, looking _very_ pleased with himself.

“Oof. Good for _you_. Get off.”

A kiss, and Clu actually did so, letting his customary armored suit rezz as he settled against the headboard, still almost _purring_. Tron winced faintly as he sat up, surface damage at his hip complaining of his weight on it for a moment. He was going to need more power already so self-repair could tackle the damage before the next down-cycle. On top of getting his space customized in the time Gem had given him. On top of finding time to see Shaddox again—though he couldn’t quite parse if the nervous twist at the thought was anticipation or _dread_ —and there was the implied message that he needed to make allies among the support programs outside his current circle… No, power first. He couldn’t afford being cranky from the low-level pain with Clu still making no move whatsoever to _leave_. Clu in a temper meant innocent programs ended up disked.

Tron pushed to his feet as soon as his suit was finished rezzing, almost wobbling on the heels, and froze when strong arms wrapped around his waist.

“Leaving so soon?” Clu said, pulling back only enough to brush fingers along the inner ring of Tron’s disk.

“I have a long task-list, and the up-cycle on our current schedules will begin in .042 millicycles,” Tron said as evenly as he could. Light flickered brighter through his circuits, but his power management couldn’t cycle through charge again like that if it _tried_. It didn’t seem to be Clu’s aim, either.

It was nothing but _strange_ to feel his disk unlock under Clu’s touch, to know that the interface was coming to life for whatever direct manipulation Clu had planned. Tron swallowed, closing his eyes and _hating_ the sick feeling crawling up from his core. It wasn’t supposed to be possible to feel much during a realtime edit, the changes gradual enough to incorporate with active code smoothly rather than the way normal synch overwhelmed the senses. Tron could _swear_ he felt it anyway, brief scrambled impressions of menu searches that made him itch under his render. It took effort to keep from thinking of snatching his disk back and _using_ it, and a warning crackle of restrictive code showed he was close to the failure condition.

“I see you’re getting along with my Guard,” Clu said, before snorting softly at whatever memory he was perusing.

“That was your last order regarding them,” Tron said frostily, locking his knees to try and keep from shaking at the _need_ to move away. Clu hummed and continued rummaging around. Tron tried to focus on breathing evenly, the calming exercises he had been set in order to work on preventing emotional bleed from overwhelming his calculations.

“You’re trembling,” Clu said after a moment, the itchy feeling subsiding a little. The surprise—the _shock_ —in his tone made Tron twitch with _intent_ , restrictions flaring and blinding him with pain for nanocycles.

“You’re _in my code_ ,” Tron snarled back as soon as the scrambled errors subsided enough, another burst of flags following right on the heels of the declaration and leaving him dizzy.

Another itchy twist—options?—and Tron’s suit promptly derezzed, the template switching over to the simpler practice clothes Farad had installed on his first visit. Soft textile replaced the tight gridsuit, plain white with just a little light at the cuffs of pants and long-sleeved shirt and a single stripe on each limb… just enough to give him open system contact, not enough to become a distraction in a partner-dance. The sleeves were long enough to partially cover the extensive circuits on his bare hands. Tron stared down at his hands clutching Clu’s arm as his disk was carefully re-closed, white and blue on black and gold. Clu lifted him and set him back among the blankets, pausing to examine the reddened ring around Tron’s left wrist with an unreadable expression.

“Tron. Stay here.”

He _hissed_ at the direct order, snatching his hand back and crossing his arms the moment Clu let him go and turned away. He stared at a fixed point in front of him, refusing to watch as footsteps crossed out to the main room again. Tron closed his eyes, rocking in place as he tried to hold in the too-vulnerable shaking. Hands in his code, in his _memories_ …

He was _never_ going to get used to this.

Warm hands cupped his, coaxed them open to press something between them, and Tron reluctantly opened his eyes to see a half-full glass of energy there. Clu’s hands were there too, steadying his until the tremors faded. He didn’t pull away until Tron managed a sip of the power, plain mixed with a hint of warming, soothing red.

“You’ve been overclocking,” Clu said quietly, and for some reason he refused to meet Tron’s gaze, eyes locked on the fingertip stroking gently along Tron’s thumb. “Drink that. Sleep yourself out. _Then_ you can resume your duties.”

Finally he raised his eyes, something Tron couldn’t put a name to in his expression. Tron stared back, lost, and with a snort Clu rose to his feet and left.


	8. Chapter 8

Shaddox muttered to himself as he adjusted settings, the entire room blurring in ways that made Tron’s sensors threaten to lock before settling into the new configuration. _He_ was parked on the couch, the only element exempted from editing, while the architect-turned-bartender seemed to naturally ride the way the code making up the room shifted.

“This is as close as I can make it. Structure’s just too set on being boxy,” Shaddox said with a sigh and a thump to the architectural interface for good measure. The room blipped again, just for a nano, before solidifying. Where the suite’s main appointment room had been a bare white box earlier in the up-cycle, now the walls were adjusted to the glassy black that most of the other Sirens favored, curved subtly from floor to ceiling and backlit with a slowly shifting pattern of blue-green-indigo to match the brighter accenting lights that delineated the furniture and storage areas. It gave the impression of being _elsewhere_ , set to alien formulas and only half-tamed by the sharp angles that dominated the Grid. More importantly, it called to old memories of rest and peace, the exact effect he was looking for.

“This is perfect,” Tron said, before laughing a little. _That_ was the word that had sent Shaddox storming from Ops to begin with.

“Don’t start, you,” Shaddox growled before he hopped the back of the couch and settled in beside the Siren, taking in his work.

“So was it worth coming out of retirement temporarily?” Tron asked after a moment.

“I could get very jealous of the Guard,” Shaddox said with a sigh, “Deletion, I haven’t felt numbers like this in cycles.”

Tron hummed, closing his eyes as he relaxed back into the slightly squishy couch. The frame had been modified a little, just enough to take the sharp edges off, and hopefully the edit would blend in enough that Clu wouldn’t fuss. There was a _rightness_ to the space that had been lacking, and Tron spared a moment to pat Shaddox’s arm.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem, Tron,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I know how rough a repurpose can be even if you _want_ it. This was the least I could do.”

“I guess you do,” Tron said, watching the colors shift through the walls. It wasn’t Encom, but it was the closest he had seen the Grid come in all his cycles running there.

“So how much longer did they give you to set up? I’m not going to get dragged out by impatient security programs, am I?”

“Let me check.” A touch of two fingers to the surface of the low table before the couch brought up the call with his schedule on it—the remainder of the millicycle was still marked _unavailable-maintenance_ , but an appointment for Reeve had been added with a recompiler’s authorization right afterward. Frowning, Tron flicked the details into the main display and muttered a curse. An appointment for Siren-assisted power rebalance meant major repair in his experience on the _other_ end of it.

“Who could have—“ Shaddox said, leaning over Tron’s shoulder, and the Siren shook his head and closed the display.

“Multiple whos,” he said, resting his chin on his hands. “Reeve and Dyson were two of the best out of the elites. No way he would have sustained that much damage in even a moderately unfair fight. Someone set up an ambush, or he was acting to protect a target.” And part of him _itched_ to get out, to prowl and find who had done such damage to one of _his_ programs and then give them the derezz they richly deserved… while the rest knew it would be a singularly bad idea, among other things. The Black Guard was a physical manifestation of Clu’s power over the Grid’s population, now, and if he _hadn’t_ been repurposed Tron knew glitching well he’d be first in line to take them on. Regretfully, perhaps, but if it put Flynn back in control of the system?

“We should finish up,” Tron said, and got back to his feet. He’d have to prioritize setting up the bench and its tools… and the soaking tub, since likely Reeve was going to be low on power and sore as anything even after a rebalance.

“Right, right. Tub room. Thoughts?” Shaddox said, pulling the interface off the wall before leading the way into the still mostly-blank second room. The wall, floor, and light settings had been universal, but otherwise the Grid’s boxiness had returned.

“Cave,” Tron said after a moment, picking up the storage unit of related odds and ends so that Shaddox could work the room’s settings without having to account for it. “Maybe.. that source spring we found, when we were surveying for the route to the Sea?”

“This rate, Clu’s going to throw a glitchfit at what you’ve done with the place,” Shaddox said, but the amused curl of his lips showed his opinion on Clu’s aesthetic tastes.

“Somehow I don’t care,” Tron said, hugging the box to his chest as he stepped back to linger in the doorway. Shaddox ran his fingertips over the interface he’d set up previously, bringing the call to life and deftly hooking his functionality in with the system-generated device. The room blurred again, shifting with a clicking creak as the walls and floor bucked and moved. Smooth surfaces became roughened, mirroring the rock of the Outlands, and the walls fractured and re-arranged into the crystalline faces of a cave, ledges and built-in storage taking on the appearance of rock rather than simple functional boxes. The soaking tub transformed the most, deepening as the sides crawled upward into an irregular collection of crystals, acquiring shallow steps and a ledge for sitting up out of the liquid that would fill the depression when it was in operation. With a look of concentration, Shaddox pressed his palms into the interface, locking the room’s settings and saving them.

“It looks almost like the real thing,” Tron said, leaning in once it was safe to do so.

“Better than almost,” Shaddox said smugly, and with a flick of his fingers at the tub, he activated the energy feed. Most fed in through the cleverly-hidden spout, but a trickle of pale, blue power started running down the wall from higher up to splash into the growing pool. “The tub’s optimized for continuous use now. Filter’ll suck the power through and send it over the fall. No having to worry about draining it aside from the normal maintenance cycle.”

“Won’t the ambient loss be too high?”

“System needs more power _cycling_ instead of _hoarded_ if you ask me,” Shaddox said, scowling for a moment at the trickle. “But no, it’s within tolerance for the Line. Higher ambient power’s one of the usual customizations for Siren levels.”

Tron set the box down, reaching to let the trickle of energy play over his fingers. It was a faint buzz against his circuits, warm and a little fizzy like a source pool should be. _How_ Shaddox had arranged the filtration to make the effect… well, repurpose never did take away _all_ a program’s skills in their previous function. He sighed, feeling the ping from the clock that let him know the last tenth of the millicycle was upon him, and started rummaging in the box of odds and ends the others had brought him.

In the end, Shaddox stayed right up until the recompilers were busy guiding Reeve through the hall, helping to place the cushions and hand-lights. Tron saw him to the door, waving goodbye even as red started to reflect off the pale walls of the plain corridor.

Reeve was in one piece, at least, though he was leaning heavily on the small green-circuited program who was trying to guide him and listed in odd directions that hinted of uneven power distribution. The Black Guard brightened considerably when he saw Tron, almost dragging the recompiler the last few steps before he wrapped the Siren in a hug.

“Hello, Reeve,” Tron said quietly, bringing one hand up to smooth down the security program’s hair while he cast a quizzical look on the recompiler.

“Just out of rebuild now,” she said, stretching gratefully, “He’s had the standard shot, but distro’s all lopsided. He specifically requested you, Siren.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Tron said with a nod, the best he could do in return for the recompiler’s bobbing bow.

“Clu said I could have anything I wanted,” Reeve said, a little slurred with response delay between thought and vocalization. “Said I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Want to tell me what happened?” Tron said, steering the heavy Guard into the suite and toward the bench that had been set up against lengthy massage work. Reeve sat down easily enough, but he clung to Tron’s waist instead of settling.

“Rebels. Wanted Clu to give Tron back. And I thought.. I _thought_ I remembered that name, and it was you! But.. not you,” Reeve said while Tron worked on peeling him off. “Had another fighter hidden with grenades in some kinda shielding baffle. Didn’t pick up the scan ‘til the grenade was in the air… Got to watch Clu tear ‘em up, though. Said I needed a _hand_ , after. Administrator makes the _worst_ puns.”

“Yes, he does,” Tron said. Reeve settled with a sigh. His power configuration was definitely lopsided—too much energy was bottled up in his torso and left arm, leaving his other limbs weakened. It was probably testament to Reeve’s efficiency that he was able to walk down at all. Humming, Tron shifted his own energy management around until the circuits on his hands were buzzing with warmth, then started gently rubbing along shell and circuit alike on Reeve’s calves to coax the blocked power along its proper channel.

The Guard was lucky to still be running, if Tron was reading the imbalance correctly. He kept up the touch, feeling a trickle of power tinged with the Guard’s signature brush up against his own, and then started running his charged fingers in soothing little circles along Reeve’s shell. The damage-tightness in the newly compiled lines started to fade, motor functions easing and letting power flow more freely as Tron slowly worked up from ankles and calves.

“You’re so good at this,” Reeve said dreamily.

“I ought to be,” Tron said, digging his thumbs into a knot of tension around a dully flickering node on the Guard’s hip.

“Wouldn’t have thought so… ‘spect a slap up the head for being careless.”

“Why would I do that? I’d probably hurt my hand.” Tron grunted and leaned into the motion, feeling the knot finally give and the Guard’s circuits resume a brilliant red-orange. There were still peripheral nodes and an arm to work out, though, and with a sigh Tron came around the side of the bench. Reeve was watching him, more thoughtful than dreamy now.

“You? Never,” he said, frowning as his eyes went out of focus, betraying memory playback access.

“Not so sure about that anymore,” Tron huffed, stroking Reeve’s fingers to coax power back through. Their signatures brushed again, Reeve’s focus and confusion reading clearly through the faint pulse of power, and the Guard surged up to snag Tron’s hand before the Siren could back away.

“I know you.”

“You spent a quarter-milli complaining about Dyson’s egomania with your head in my lap two up-cycles ago. I’d _hope so_.” Tron tensed, caught between restriction that pricked uncomfortably through his core and the fierce frown on his once-friend’s face as he tried to work through the missing memory files. _Delete_ Clu for wiping him.

“No. I _know_ you. _Tron_. You’re… what _happened_ to you? I—“ Reeve screwed his eyes shut, and it didn’t take the touch-link still echoing between them to pick up his pain at running headlong into errors from the missing files. Dangling tags.. _that much_ work must have brought whatever memory-associations Clu hadn’t gotten rid of back into active processing.

“Shhhh,” Tron said, leaning in to wrap his free arm around the Guard’s shoulders. “Don’t force it.”

“What happened to _me_?”

“You might be happier not knowing.”

“Don’t think I’d ever think to hear you say that.”

“We’ve both changed,” Tron said softly, “Not entirely voluntarily.”

“The rebels. _You_. You’re who they want.. because.. _because_ … Glitch it, why can’t I _remember_?”

“Reeve. _Listen_ to me.” Tron pressed his fingers over the Guard’s lips before Reeve could retort, trying to calculate around the whisper-sharpness of restrictive coding and the horrified expression on the other program’s face. “You lost a lot of memory in the coup. Let it go if you can, all right? Don’t force yourself to reconstruct the filepaths. Spend your energy on making new memories instead, huh?”

“You know me,” Reeve said, _certain_ , his breath ghosting warmly against the sensitized circuits on Tron’s fingers.

“Yes. I’ve known you a long time.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t think it would do much good,” Tron said, holding Reeve’s gaze as much as a fresh spike of shame made him want to look away. The system monitor he _was_ would never _think_ of breathing the words… but he was no longer a system monitor. “You serve the Administrator now, yes? Then focus on keeping his system running smoothly.”

“Thought you fought for the Users,” Reeve mumbled, the pained-puzzled look back as he frowned.

“It’s up to the User now to take his system back if he wants it.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say, and Reeve’s expression cleared as he sighed and let Tron go. The Siren let out a shuddery breath, feeling the restrictions fold away into the back of his processes. Cautiously, he let his fingers trail around the node on Reeve’s shoulder, smiling a little at the pleased rumble from the Guard.

“I’ll follow your lead,” Reeve said sleepily, favoring Tron with a lopsided smile before he settled back onto the bench.

“I know.”


	9. Chapter 9

Raised voices quickened Tron’s steps before he had completely registered what was being said, the sleepy slowness of the beginning of the down-cycle giving way to worry as he finished striding into Ops. The Throne Ship was still docked, as always, and Clu and Jarvis were in the midst of a forest of readouts and power distribution plats… but Jarvis was half-hiding behind his datapad and Clu was reaching for his disk.

This wasn’t unfamiliar. Tron had seen Clu do this a hex of times since he had been re-awakened. It still made rage tick through his circuits, the ghost of old directives flaring through him. _Protect the system_ wasn’t so far from his current calling as he used to think.

He was a Siren. He wasn’t equipped to _fight_.

“Security has expanded operations in Gamma—“ Jarvis started, shuffling a half-step backward as Clu advanced, his disk igniting in a flare of light. Tron’s walk slid into a run, processes emptying of thoughts. He couldn’t _fight_ , Clu had seen to that, couldn’t raise a hand to the administrator even with the tide-pull of his programming shrilling at him to _intervene_. Clu was going to go _through_ with it—

“Not. Good. Enough,” he growled.

“Administrator! I—“

Jarvis was cringing, the whole tableau slowing down fractionally as Tron approached. He couldn’t _fight_ —he couldn’t let this keep _happening_.

“I gave you a simple order! Trace the glitching rebels to their base! And what happens—“ Clu snarled, raising the disk.

Tron felt the _crack_ across his cheek and jaw, the pain following in a sharp, cold wave right after as both he and Jarvis fell to the floor, the task scheduler from the shove Tron had given him, and the Siren as his knees gave out suddenly. It was a minor injury, that much a fast diagnostic told him, but it _hurt_ far more than he remembered… another downside to losing his combat subroutines. He pushed up from the floor slowly, dizzy as he tried to compensate for the system suddenly being in monofocus, as Jarvis tried to curl up into a ball  with a whimper.

Jarvis was unharmed, just scared into a glitch.

Clu, Tron noted, was staring at them both, and after a microcycle the disk in his hand deactivated and clattered to the ground, too. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, and Tron winced even as he could feel his damaged face stretching into a grin. Perhaps it was sad commentary on his runtime that _this_ felt like a victory.

Gentle fingers closed around his chin, tilting his head so that Clu could examine the break in Tron’s render, the damage to his optics. He couldn’t read Clu like this, not half-scrambled and trying not to laugh, and tried to focus on the task scheduler instead of the contradictory impulses he was getting through the touch. Jarvis discreetly scooted back a few paces, sitting up and once more hiding behind the datapad.

“Jarvis,” Clu said, his voice shaking.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“You see to Tron. We will continue this discussion _later_.”

“Of course, Administrator,” Jarvis said, the last syllable half-a-squeak. Clu’s hand hovered over the crack for a moment, and Tron braced himself, but he refrained from touching it. Instead, he shot the Siren another unreadable look and swirled from the room, down to the lower levels of the Ops building, with only a short pause to retrieve his disk. Jarvis stared after him until neither of them could hear footfalls.

“What was that about?” Tron said, pushing back the fresh burst of pain as the crack threatened to widen.

“Don’t talk!” Jarvis said, setting his datapad down carefully on a panel before offering the Siren a hand. Tron let the scheduler take most of his weight as he levered to his feet, wobbling slightly. His balance was off with the damage to his senses. Lovely. “You’ll.. why did… What the _glitch_ , Tron?”

“That would have derezzed you,” he said with a shrug, smiling a little as Jarvis flailed a little more. “I’ve had worse.”

“Let’s get you to the recompiler… _User_ I never want to do that again…” Jarvis said, a little breathlessly. Tron hummed, resisting the scheduler’s tug on his arm. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Clu brandish a lit disk at someone, and the pain was a _relief_ after the helpless fury of before, directives and restrictions quiet for a change. “Tron?”

“Let’s not,” he said, turning toward the Throne Ship. His directive coding hadn’t stopped him. He could _push_ them, then—perhaps Jarvis’s position as the lead scheduler, irreplaceable with Flynn who-knew-where, had overridden the injunction to take care of himself. It made a certain kind of sense. In many respects Clu _was_ the system, which had been the complication in _removing_ him… and Tron’s directives had prioritized ensuring no harm came to Clu.

He needed to _think_ , and without anyone fidgeting over his shoulder.

“Are you _glitched_?” Jarvis said, freezing and staring at Tron, his expression somewhere between exasperation and shock. He patted Jarvis’s arm, getting a much clearer read of _shock/awe/irritation_.

“Clu is perfectly capable of rewriting me. He can fix a little render damage,” Tron said, a little more briskly than he felt, as he led the way. That was true, too, a piece of the puzzle. But instead of making the repair, the administrator had left, at a loss for words.

Why had Clu taken _him_? He could have had his choice of any Siren in the system, gladly. Not repurposed _him_ , gone for _memory_ over function knowing faulted well that Tron would be looking for any and every loophole he could. There were other ways Clu could have taken his prize, if it _was_ spite…

“ _Tron_. Tron come on. You’re damaged. You need a repair. We’ll call someone if you don’t want to make the trip… that is a pretty good crack,” Jarvis said, half-skipping a step or two to try and stay ahead. “And _thank you_. I mean it. You… you didn’t have to do that for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Tron said, distracted. The answer to Gem’s question was _right there_ , tangled up in the middle of this fresh madness, and he needed to _know_ —

“Tron, this isn’t funny.”

“It’s not meant to be… but Clu meant to disk you. If he’s upset about the _collateral damage_ , he can fix it,” Tron snapped, feeling his breath catch.

_That was it._

“ _Tron_.”

“Jarvis,” Tron said, grabbing the other program by the shoulders to forestall any more pacing. The ship was quiet, and the expansive personal quarters as precise as always.  “ _Relax_. This is not your fault. If you want to be helpful, find me a basic mask template. I’m going to need one on the up-cycle. Will Clu be back anytime soon?”

“Ah… no. I don’t think—He’ll be locked in tactical meetings with Dyson until further notice,” Jarvis said, eyes flaring brighter as he pulled the schedule from the system. “Are you seriously going to… Doesn’t that _hurt_?”

“Yes, I am. Yes, it does,” Tron said, letting himself sink onto the bed. Smiling hurt, glitch it, but he couldn’t completely repress it. “Mask, please.”

“If you say so…” Jarvis said, shaking his head and giving Tron a long, confused look. The Siren grinned back, maybe a touch more manic than reassuring, and with a shudder the scheduler scurried out.

Tron leaned back into the pillows, taking a cautious moment to dial back the feedback from the injury as much as he could. Sirens couldn’t compartmentalize their sensors the way security programs could… but even damping down the pain helped. He’d definitely had worse. Jarvis reappeared, thin-lipped, and wordlessly handed over the blank template before turning on his heel and leaving. The brush of their fingers told the story easily enough—Jarvis was a ball of nerves and anger, probably convinced that Clu would finish what he started.

He didn’t intend to make anyone but _himself_ a target. If their so-called luminary was going to throw temper fits like a beta, he could glitching well deal with the consequences. It wasn’t something Tron had ever been able to accomplish as a security program… but _he_ was no longer a security program, and Clu had prioritized having _Tron_ instead of the deadly champion of the Grid for a reason.

There was a possibility he was misreading the situation, of course, but Tron accessed the template with a snort. What _else_ could Clu do to him? Derezz him?

He hummed to himself as he altered the template, resizing it to cover the wound and then adding a few angular circuit-lines to help make up for his disabled eye. Pressed against the crack, and it helped damp and dull the pain more, protecting his exposed code. It settled into the background, something he could ignore, and once he was finished Tron found himself yawning.

Well. Nobody had given _him_ any orders, and sleep had been beckoning at the end of the shift _before_ the massive challenge to his self-repair systems. He curled up on his side, letting the quiet lull him, and dozed as he waited for Clu to return.


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m holding you responsible if he derezzes us,” the recompiler said as she spotted Tron sitting calmly in her office for the fifth time.

“I reported,” Tron said, smiling humorlessly and feeling it pull on the crack in his face. At least the wound had stabilized over the last several up-cycles, no more voxels peeling loose and getting caught in the mask whenever he spoke. The recompiler—Grace, the designation ironic with the way she had of bumping into things as she walked, her render short and round in contrast with the willowy tallness of most of the Line’s other programs—sighed heavily and sat at the workstation across from the patient bed.

“How long this time?”

“The full up-cycle. I’m told to tell you that you have to talk sense into me before he’s tempted into doing something _drastic_ ,” Tron said serenely.

“And are we going to see sense today?” Grace said, looking through something on a datapad.

“No. I’m curious what he thinks will intimidate me.”

“Glad we have that out of the way.”

Grace, Tron _liked_. Particularly since she, once more, immediately put him to work sorting and organizing supplies and power-balancing programs who might not otherwise have gotten the chance at a Siren’s attentions. It wasn’t like the Siren floors of the Line at all, the air almost crackling with stress and fear and anger from the ailing programs who were brought in, but that made the surprised _oh_ and pulse of well-being as a hurting program finally felt relief all the better. Still exhausting work that left him feeling prickly and out of sorts from the emotional transference… but it was also easier to ignore the dull pulse of the crack in his face this way, too.

Clu, of course, was not happy at all with him. Had _not_ been as the time stretched, shifts stringing together as Tron’s collection of masks grew along with his firm refusal to let anyone else touch the damage. Clu looked even less so when he appeared at Grace’s doorstep at the precise end of the up-cycle to see Tron still masked and marked with damage flags.

Tron, for his own part, had managed to start subduing his smiles whenever Clu gave him that sour look. The administrator led the way in silence, bringing them to the dark, minimally-lit street runner that he used occasionally in the city. Tron waved to the driver—Dahl this time, who rolled his eyes but returned an abbreviated wave of his own—before he joined Clu in the back compartment, sitting calmly across from him as the vehicle slid into motion.

He didn’t need scans at all to note Clu’s emotional state. It was amazing that no one else seemed to sense the black cloud of frustration and fury surrounding him… or perhaps they _had_ noticed, and were simply ignoring it in hopes it went away. Clu simply stared at Tron the entire way to Ops, expression curiously blank.

Tron watched him back, unable to _quite_ stop the way his lips curled into a half-smile. If he was already glitched for gridbugs, what did it matter?

Jarvis was the first to break the silence around them, as Clu strode through Ops like a thundercloud.

“Sir, Dyson reports the rebel cell is dealt with,” Jarvis said, voice clipped and cool despite the faint trembling Tron could detect in his frame.

“Is that so?” Clu said, drawing out the syllables lazily.

“Yes. There were no survivors.. but disks are in transit for data-mining and re-rezz,” Jarvis said, straightening even more despite how taught his posture was.

“All right then. I’m taking the down-cycle. No disturbances. Clear?” Clu said, raising his voice to include the other schedulers and routers in the room. There was a murmur of assent, a little of the fear in the room ebbing away.

“I will have a full report for you on the up-cycle,” Jarvis said with a bow, though he shot Tron a worried look, broadcasting _status-ok?_ in a fast burst. Tron nodded, smirking just a little, and Jarvis huffed a breath. Clu half-turned, but Tron schooled his features, tilting his head in inquiry.

Without another word, they entered the docked ship. Clu paced to the observation deck and the throne there. Tron stopped a decorous two paces from the side of the throne, but Clu continued to pace, glancing between Tron and the view of the city as he circled. Tron stared straight ahead, staying focused on the gleam of lights in the distance when _instinct_ made him want to watch, to track the enemy that could lash out at any time. It would be a waste of energy. Clu couldn’t be touched.

“You are trying my patience,” the administrator said finally, the tight fury of his steps reflected in his voice.

“Is that so?” Tron said, “I thought I was doing a lot more than _trying_.”

“Your _insubordination_ —“

“I have followed every order of yours, to the _letter_.”

The crackling storm of anger finally broke. With a bitten-off snarl, Clu seized Tron by the scruff and tossed him at the window. The Siren had enough time to regain his footing and brace himself before Clu was _there_ , slamming the damaged side of his face into the glass. The mask didn’t help, edges biting into his cheek and throat and threatening to widen the break. The urge to laugh helped even less. This was getting to be a familiar position.

“I should _derezz_ you,” Clu growled, temper and confusion both spilling over Tron’s senses like a wave.

“You could. Would it make you feel better?” Tron said, rasping a little at the pressure on his throat, the scrape of damaged voxels threatening to come loose again. Clu’s grip tightened, growling loud enough to rumble through them both, and Tron choked on the breath of a laugh, pain spiking where the administrator was digging his fingers into the break’s new edges.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Clu shook him, making the view of the city wheel drunkenly.

“You’re asking _me_?”

“You refuse repairs, _provoke_ me…” Clu said with another shake.

“If it’s your desire to lash out at everything like an undisciplined beta, who am _I_ to stop you?” Tron said, static snapping through his voice. The crack was reaching into his throat, vocal functions.

“ _You_!”

“ _Breaking something_ was _your_ will. Who am I to question it?”

“You interfered! You shouldn’t have gotten involved.. of all the _glitching_ \--!” Clu said shifting for another shake and then stopping, breathing hard.

“ _Jarvis_ is not the expendable one.”

“ _You are not expendable_!” The words were almost a roar, accompanied by another process-scrambling shake. Clu let go then, leaving Tron to drop to the floor, head ringing. The administrator paced tight circles, a thousand aborted gestures making him twitch angrily.

“None of us are!” Tron said, though the words rode a weak cough instead of the shout he wanted. “You overthrew the User, remember? Threw a virus into the Sea? Forget _that_ too? _No more new programs for the Grid_. Your temper tantrums are going to gut the system at this rate! Even your own faulted directive commands recognize it.”

“You are _not_ to risk yourself!”

“And _your_ safety is on a higher priority!”

“ _My_ —“

“What do you _think_ is going to happen to _you_ if you keep breaking this place? Flynn isn’t going to repair the damage _you_ cause anymore.”

“Shut _up_!” Clu snarled, lunging in to grab Tron by the throat again. He shut up, hissing breaths between his teeth as he tried to cancel a whimper from the pain. Oh, that wound was not doing good now.

For long microcycles, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Tron closed his eyes, trying to breathe around the injury and the overwhelming and conflicting emotions pouring strongly off of the furious administrator. His head hurt, the feedback pulsing discordantly against his own emotions no matter how he tried to withdraw and calm down again… the problem that Katal had hinted, during his tutorial.

The clutching hand withdrew, leaving Tron to sag against the window. He didn’t open his eyes, waiting for the throbbing pain to dull first.

“ _Disk_ ,” Clu said, the command clipped. It took two tries for Tron to undock it. When had he started shaking?

He watched Clu frown and turn away, the lines of his back stiff and tense. White-blue light outlined Clu, the only hint of what he was doing as he accessed the Siren’s disk. Tron leaned against the glass, making no effort to move. Whatever Clu was doing… he couldn’t stop or impact it now. There were flickers in the light—memory access?—before it settled into a more constant glow and Clu rumbled to himself in irritation.

Maybe the administrator was editing him again. Locking down his memories, perhaps, so that he was more biddable? Deleting the last few millicycles, as if canceling them would change anything? Tron smothered another laugh, and Clu _flinched_ at the sound.

When he turned back, at least Clu was composed. Tron’s disk rested in his hands, and at least from a simple visual check remained unchanged, the inner ring still lit silver-blue. Rather than hand it back, though, Clu knelt and tugged Tron forward, latching the disk in place himself. The rush of the edit tickled and itched, the wound disappearing as the repaired code-strings went online and overwrote the damaged ones. Tron gasped, clinging to Clu’s arm for support as the repair pulled on his power systems and made the Grid white out in a dizzying wave.

When he came back to himself, he was still leaning against Clu, who was slowly stroking his hair. After a moment, Clu hummed softly and lifted the mask away, a couple of dead, stray voxels from the injury falling away with a clink before they faded out, power reabsorbed by the system. Gloved fingers stroked his cheek, tilted his chin so that Clu could visually inspect the repair.

Tron didn’t _feel_ much different. And the crackling hiss of anger was burned out, no reading leaking through their touch thanks to his attempts to damp the feedback earlier.

“Why do you keep trying to leave me too?” Clu said quietly.

“I’m not,” Tron said, the words catching on a cough as his voice rebooted.

“Liar.”

“You ordered me not to lie to you,” Tron said.

“You hide behind my orders whenever it’s convenient,” Clu said sourly, frowning as he finally met Tron’s gaze.

“No.”

“You are not expendable, Tron,” Clu said, punctuating it with a faint shake of Tron’s shoulders. “You’re not getting out of this by trying to goad me.”

“And you’re not ignoring the consequences of your actions if you keep me around,” Tron said.

“I should derezz you for that,” Clu growled. “Or edit that _mouth_ out of you.”

“You won’t.”

“And why is _that_?”

“Because then I would be _getting out of this_ , as you put it,” Tron said.

Clu huffed, pulling him closer. Tron let himself be pulled, letting a questing tendril of scan loose from his control. Clu was still a whirlwind, contradictory impulses warring even if the _rage_ had faded. Tron let the scan drop as the headache threatened to return, his own resources stretched too badly to try and navigate the administrator to a calmer state of mind.

He didn’t resist when Clu finally gathered him up and carried him deeper into the ship.


End file.
